Bite Marks
by provocative envy
Summary: TWO-SHOT: "So—you're upset," he says with a nonchalant nod and discreet adjustment of his slightly too-tight khaki corduroys. She blinks at him, her expression alternating between indignation and incredulity and flat-out fury. He had been right about her being pretty beneath the intimidation tactics. HG/DM. (Companion to 'Punch Drunk').
1. Part One

**Bite Marks**

_By: Provocative Envy_

###

**PART ONE**

_-Fall – Winter – Spring-_

###

It all starts at Horace Slughorn's annual Halloween dinner party.

Sort of.

Well—

That's when Draco meets Harry Potter, at least.

###

(9:23 pm) _**i cant believe my father made me come to this**_

(9:23 pm) _**fucking**_

(9:23 pm) _**bullshit **_

(9:25 pm) _**its bullshit blaise**_

(9:27 pm) _didnt he bribe u though_

(9:27 pm) _he bought u a brewery dude_

(9:28 pm) _an actual functioning brewery_

(9:28 pm) _hes even letting u call it something to do w/ dragons_

(9:28 pm) _because ur a nerd_

(9:28 pm) _and have a weird boner for game of thrones_

(9:29 pm) _**or**_

(9:29 pm) _**alternatively**_

(9:30 pm) _**my name is latin for dragon**_

(9:30 pm) _**and in other news**_

(9:30 pm) _**youre a fucking idiot**_

(9:31 pm) _no shit_

(9:31 pm) _?_

(9:31 pm) _huh_

(9:33 pm) _**anyway**_

(9:33 pm) _**nine courses**_

(9:33 pm) _**NINE COURSES**_

(9:34 pm) _**and im seated next to some asshole from the soccer team who keeps monopolizing slughorn**_

(9:34 pm) _**he hasnt left him alone for the past 30 minutes**_

(9:34 pm) _**my dads gonna be pissed**_

(9:35 pm) _lol_

(9:35 pm) _are they serving those tiny little individual chickens_

(9:35 pm) _the_

(9:36 pm) _what are they called_

(9:37 pm) _?_

(9:38 pm) _**like who the fuck is harry potter**_

(9:38 pm) _**he wears glasses for fucks sake**_

(9:38 pm) _**i bet theyre not even prescription**_

(9:38 pm) _**i bet theyre fake**_

(9:38 pm) _**i bet he just wears them so people think hes smart**_

(9:39 pm) _cornish game hens_

(9:39 pm) _thats what theyre called_

(9:39 pm) _**his jokes aren't even funny**_

(9:39 pm) _**what the fuck**_

(9:39 pm) _**why are people laughing**_

(9:44 pm) _his name comes up with a bunch of voldemort articles_

(9:44 pm) _and a coffee table book_

(9:44 pm) _wow_

(9:44 pm) _his life SUCKS_

(9:45 pm) _like_

(9:45 pm) _damn_

(9:45 pm) _brother needs a hug_

(9:47 pm) _**im not drnk enough for this bullshit**_

(9:48 pm) _**im wearing a $600 shirt**_

(9:48 pm) _**this fucker has MUD on his jeans**_

(9:50 pm) _maybe he got dirty when he was running for his life_

(9:52 pm) _**but yeah sure dean mcgonagall i didnt want that special invite to your standing room only lecture on third world nationalism**_

(9:52 pm) _**give it to the kid with fucking bedhead**_

(9:52 pm) _**who spit out his fucking wine and then asked for a can of sprite**_

(9:52 pm) _didn't someone get poisoned last year at one of slughorns parties_

(9:52 pm) _maybe the sprites a good call_

(9:54 pm) _**hes a real winner**_

(9:54 pm) _**my dads senate seat is absolutely in his future**_

(9:54 pm) _**its not like ive been groomed sicne birth for it or anything**_

(9:55 pm) _**that would be ridiculous**_

(9:59 pm) _daphne says hi_

(9:59 pm) _and pansy says to stop sending marcus to pick her up from cheer practice_

(10:00 pm) _have u really been doing that_

(10:01 pm) _not cool bro_

(10:01 pm) _marcus actually likes her_

(10:01 pm) _but she calls him the hulk_

(10:02 pm) _and not in a good way_

(10:02 pm) _daph says its never gonna happen_

(10:06 pm) _**this is a fucking abomination**_

(10:06 pm) _**i asked potter who invited him**_

(10:06 pm) _**and you know what he said**_

(10:06 pm) _**do you blaise**_

(10:06 pm) _**DO YOU**_

(10:06 pm) _**he said**_

(10:06 pm) _**and i quote**_

(10:07 pm) _**"i wasn't technically invited, slughorn just kind of cornered me after class and begged me to come and I didn't know how to say no"**_

(10:09 pm) _**FUCK MY LIFE**_

(10:15 pm) _are you ever like_

(10:15 pm) _low key attracted to other guys_

(10:15 pm) _not in a gay way_

(10:15 pm) _well_

(10:15 pm) _maybe in a bi way_

(10:15 pm) _?_

(10:20 pm) _**this guy is a fucking moron**_

(10:21 pm) _take theo for example_

(10:22 pm) _he isn't big on wearing shirts _

(10:22 pm) _u know what im saying_

(10:24 pm) _**he just asked me what a regatta was**_

(10:24 pm) _**is this real**_

(10:25 pm) _and im man enough to appreciate another mans six pack_

(10:29 pm) _**i hate everything**_

(10:29 pm) _which_

(10:29 pm) _thats normal right_

(10:30 pm) _**he just spilled his fucking sprite on my tie**_

(10:30 pm) _**no way was that an accident**_

(10:34 pm) _u do it too right_

(10:34 pm) _of course u do u live in a frat house_

(10:39 pm) _**im about to lose my shit**_

(10:39 pm) _**LOSE**_

(10:39 pm) _**MY**_

(10:39 pm) _**SHIT**_

(10:42 pm) _bro_

(10:42 pm) _ur being really dramatic_

###

Draco's nose isn't technically broken.

He feels like it's important to make that distinction.

Grainy camera-phone footage of The Fight makes its way to YouTube, and then a twenty-second clip makes its way onto a locally broadcasted late-night show on Fox News. His father does the thin-lipped imperious nostril-flare thing for the _entirety_ of their weekly Skype call, and his mother fusses and wails piteously for fifteen minutes before briskly making Draco an appointment with her second-favorite plastic surgeon. His professors are mostly bemused by his new configuration of pseudo-celebrity—there's a lot of head-shaking and dogged determination to not acknowledge it—and his academic adviser gapes with unabashed, wide-eyed bewilderment at the tassels on Draco's Italian leather loafers, as if she's trying, and failing miserably, to reconcile the 2280-on-his-SATs-with-no-available-ACT-scores-but-five-kick-ass-personal-recommendations-from-a-variety-of-important-elected-officials version of him that she knows so well with the petty, spoiled, rules-have-obviously-never-applied-and-obviously-never-will _hoodlum_—thanks for that, Nancy Grace—she watched pour a tureen of butternut squash soup down the back of Harry Potter's sweatshirt.

It's _humiliating_.

Draco's frat brothers vacillate between hardcore self-righteous indignation on his behalf and outright _mockery_ depending on how much they've had to drink—Marcus kills half a thirty-rack of Coors Light and has a pair of baby pink boxing gloves shipped to Draco overnight via Amazon Prime, while Vince and Greg bake him an aluminum sheet tray of pot brownies with 'SORRY ABOUT THE ICE PACK' spelled out in neon green icing across the center. Blaise brings him a brown paper bag full of cheap plastic novelty glasses from the Halloween store, and Theo wordlessly hands Draco a heavy, paint-splattered hammer with which to obliterate them.

It's okay for a while.

And then a bunch of _assholes _on an Internet forum for superheroes write an algorithm that assigns a point value to every punch, slap, and kick of The Fight and unanimously declare Potter the winner and Draco's life gets _exponentially shittier_.

###

(3:22 pm) _draco_

(3:22 pm) _srsly man_

(3:22 pm) _the stairs?_

(3:22 pm) _u tripped him down the stairs_

(3:22 pm) _what the fuck_

(3:22 pm) _ur not regina george_

(3:23 pm) _u know that right_

(3:23 pm) _**OKAY BUT WAIT**_

(3:23 pm) _**he started it**_

(3:24 pm) _**goddamn it**_

(3:24 pm) _**he took the last copy of utopia **_

(3:24 pm) _**which you know i needed for my debate on amnesty for illegal immigrants**_

(3:25 pm) _**and he fucking SMILED as he did it blaise**_

(3:25 pm) _**smiled**_

(3:26 pm) _**and now the illegal immigrants wont get their amnesty**_

(3:26 pm) _?_

(3:26 pm) _ur a republican_

(3:26 pm) _**and its all his fault**_

(3:28 pm) _**so really he tripped himself down the library stairs**_

(3:28 pm) _**i was dispensing justice**_

(3:29 pm) _bro_

(3:29 pm) _u havent been this crazy since u took pansy to homecoming and her dad made u go to the shooting range w/ him_

(3:29 pm) _**fuck off**_

(3:30 pm) _**did u know he has like six crossbows hidden in his car**_

(3:31 pm) _**and a knife**_

(3:31 pm) _**and a sniper rifle**_

(3:31 pm) _**at all times**_

(3:32 pm) _**whenever we got to a stop sign hed very casually tell me about all the pressure points on the human body that he knew how to kill people with**_

(3:32 pm) _**he offered to demonstrate**_

(3:32 pm) _**how did a man that terrifying spawn PANSY**_

(3:33 pm) _2 be fair_

(3:33 pm) _pansys kinda scary when shes mad_

(3:33 pm) _remember wut she did 2 that girl_

(3:33 pm) _lavender whatever her name was_

(3:33 pm) _after that whole thing with daph and finnigan and the locker room_

(3:34 pm)_** haha**_

(3:34 pm) _**yeah**_

(3:35 pm) _**girls are fucking vicious**_

(3:38 pm) _preach_

###

"_You_!" a shrill, unfamiliar female voice calls after him as he's leaving the upper campus Starbucks with a venti quad caramel macchiato and a sugar cookie shaped like a snowman. "Are you Draco Malfoy?"

He grimaces into his cup—generally speaking, being recognized hasn't been a particularly Good Thing for him lately; Harry Potter, it turns out, has an actual motherfucking _fan base_.

"Maybe," Draco replies warily, breath misting in the cold December air; his ears are pretty much numb at this point, and he thinks longingly of the rabbit-fur Burberry earmuffs he'd left sitting on his desk. "Who are you?"

The girl stomps over from the opposite side of the courtyard, footsteps quick and angry; she's short and thin—_willowy_, his brain supplies stupidly—and has a face that would probably be pretty if it wasn't twisted in such a harsh, unforgiving scowl. She has on dark-wash skinny jeans tucked into scuffed brown riding boots and a hideous, puffy white nylon Northface jacket. Her crocheted wool scarf is both purple and blue and looks like it might be handmade. Her lips, he notices as she gets closer, are full and pouty and pink—dry and a little flaky, too, like she has absolutely no idea what Chapstick is.

He doesn't have a type—not exactly—but if he did…

This girl wouldn't be it.

At all.

And yet—

_He cannot stop fucking staring at her_.

"Hermione Granger," she announces, flashing big brown eyes—_pretty_, he thinks again, very faintly—and appraising him with an impressively impatient sneer. "You don't know me."

He arches a brow and takes a long, measured gulp of his coffee, swallowing as slowly as he possibly can—this girl reminds him of every single high-strung, stressed-out, overworked grad student on the verge of a panic attack that he's ever seen, and something about the way she's glaring at him makes him _really_ want to annoy her.

"Then why are you talking to me?" he asks bluntly.

She heaves the strap of her army-green canvas laptop bag farther up her shoulder; a trio of aluminum pins are stuck to the outer flap, and he's horrified to see that one of them is a spangled red, white, and blue endorsement for the ACLU.

"Because this _ridiculous _pissing contest you've got going on with Harry is officially interfering with _my _life," she snaps, gritting her teeth. "That idiotic prank you pulled last weekend—with the lawn mower and the—the _sheep_, which, _what_, where did you even _get_ a sheep, I'm sure it couldn't have been _legal_—anyway—Harry broke his wrist when he jumped off the bleachers and now can't type, which means that I have to help him, which means that my argument for my mock trial audition isn't getting _nearly _enough of my attention, which—_upsets me_. I am _upset_, and it is _your_ fault, and I will _ruin you_ if you don't start leaving Harry alone."

Draco's mouth falls open.

He clutches his cookie and ignores the shower of crumbs littering his grey cashmere fingerless gloves.

He can't decide if he wants to fuck this girl or fight with her. Maybe both? Maybe at the same time?

"So—you're upset," he says with a nonchalant nod and discreet adjustment of his slightly too-tight khaki corduroys.

She blinks at him, her expression alternating between indignation and incredulity and flat-out fury.

He had been right about her being pretty beneath the intimidation tactics.

"What are you drinking?" she suddenly asks, pointing at his to-go cup.

He frowns and cocks his head to the side.

"A caramel macchiato," he answers, skepticism evident. "But it's mostly espresso. I have a paper on the _overwhelming benefits_ of bipartisanship due tomorrow morning and I haven't even referenced the Cold War yet."

She visibly winces.

"Of course you do," she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Anyway—is it still hot? Your…_caramel macchiato_?"

He grunts.

"How hot?" she presses. "Third-degree burns hot? Lukewarm tea hot? Somewhere in between, maybe?"

He considers his cup again and shrugs.

"Somewhere in between, probably. Why?"

She hums.

He narrows his eyes.

She leans forward, her chest brushing his, and snatches his cup out of his hand.

He clears his throat.

She smiles sweetly.

An incredibly confusing blend of arousal and unease swirls in the pit of his stomach. Is he turned on? Is he frightened? Does it matter?

"I'm only going to say this once more," she says, tone nonthreatening and vaguely conversational; she plucks off the top of his coffee cup and takes a small, hesitant sip, as if to test the temperature.

"What are you—" he tries to ask.

Her smile disappears.

His dick actually _twitches_.

"_Stay away from Harry_," she hisses, and then—

She upends his venti quad caramel macchiato all over the front of his navy wool pea coat.

"Mother_fucker_," he gasps.

###

(9:52 pm) _**im staying with you for christmas**_

(10:05 pm) _uh_

(10:05 pm) _k_

(10:05 pm) _?_

(10:06 pm) _**my dad wants to take me to maine**_

(10:06 pm) _**for "bonding"**_

(10:07 pm) _**and im not fucking falling for that again**_

(10:08 pm) _ur really paranoid_

(10:08 pm) _**would YOU want to be alone on a beach with lucius malfoy and a lobster trap**_

(10:10 pm) _is that a trick question_

(10:11 pm) _**besides**_

(10:11 pm) _**he always wants to take pictures of us wearing matching cable knit sweaters and holding footballs by the lighthouse**_

(10:12 pm) _**for his instagram**_

(10:12 pm) _**and its an election year blaise**_

(10:12 pm) _**he might try to hug me**_

(10:12 pm) _**or**_

(10:13 pm) _**ruffle my hair**_

(10:13 pm) _u look good w/ the black and white filter tho_

(10:13 pm) _**…thank you? i think? **_

(10:13 pm) _**save that shit for theo man**_

(10:13 pm) _oh fuck off_

(10:13 pm) _**whatever**_

(10:14 pm) _**i dont know why you havent hit that yet**_

(10:15 pm) _stop talking pls_

(10:15 pm) _**he watches the bachelor with you and daphne**_

(10:15 pm) _**youre basically all already dating**_

(10:17 pm) _**you need to tell marcus that pansy isnt coming on saturday btw**_

(10:18 pm) _BRO_

(10:18 pm) _no_

(10:18 pm) _u do it_

(10:18 pm) _**hes too excited**_

(10:18 pm) _**it'll be like kicking a puppy**_

(10:18 pm) _**a really enormous steroid infused puppy**_

(10:20 pm) _he put mistletoe everywhere_

(10:20 pm) _like i found some in the lucky charms box_

(10:21 pm) _he said it was for "the morning after"_

(10:22 pm) _**that level of optimism is somehow both admirable and incredibly depressing**_

(10:22 pm) _idk _

(10:22 pm) _i thought it was nice_

(10:23 pm) _**shes been turning him down for two and a half years**_

(10:23 pm) _**i fucking hate quoting snape**_

(10:23 pm) _**but**_

(10:24 pm) _**no means no**_

(10:26 pm) _when was the last time snape was even here_

(10:26 pm) _rush week? _

(10:26 pm) _when he gave us that speech about hazing_

(10:28 pm) _**fuck if i know**_

(10:28 pm) _**wait **_

(10:28 pm) _**was that the "literally dont ever contact me unless someones hospitalized" speech**_

(10:29 pm) _**or was that a different one**_

(10:30 pm) _yeah no that was like the whole thing_

(10:31 pm) _thats all he said _

(10:31 pm) _then he just gave us those printouts about how to do cpr_

(10:32 pm) _and taught us how to tell if someone needed stitches or not_

(10:32 pm) _hes kind of bad at his job_

(10:33 pm) _**yeah**_

(10:34 pm) _**absolutely**_

(10:55 pm) _**hey**_

(10:55 pm) _**unrelated question**_

(10:56 pm) _**if a girl pours a drink on you**_

(10:56 pm) _**can that be considered flirting**_

(10:59 pm) _no means no bro_

###

Draco is phenomenally wasted when he sees Hermione Granger again.

"Holy shit!" he shouts, tugging at the sleeve of Marcus's green velvet elf costume. "What the fuck is _she_ doing here?"

Marcus frowns glumly into the depths of his dented red Solo cup.

"Who?"

Draco squints.

"Potter's friend," he answers, clumsily gesturing across the crowded living room; a Sisqo song is blaring from the mismatched speakers set up on either side of the eighty-inch flat-screen, and a sorority girl dressed as a pin-up version of Mrs. Claus is dancing—wobbling?—on top of the cheap plywood coffee table. It's from Ikea. Draco suspects that there will be an injury soon. "The brunette in the red dress—wow, she looks _really_ mad, I wonder—"

"_You_!" Hermione Granger screeches when she finally notices him, and he wastes a few precious seconds dumbly admiring the almost _graceful_ way she ducks around a highly unpredictable cluster of wasted upperclassmen trying to wrestle and then throws an elbow into the jugular of a communications major Draco doesn't remember the name of who reaches out to grab her ass. "I _told you_ to leave Harry alone!"

He flounders for a socially acceptable response that isn't _you're scarier than my father _or _please touch my penis because it likes you a lot_ or _I lent my legendary econ notes to the captain of the mock trial team in exchange for information about your whereabouts and/or study habits_.

"Is this about the pizza?" he blurts out before inwardly chastising himself for his woeful lack of a verbal filter because _plausible deniability_, shit, he is a _terrible_ drunk, he's usually so much _smoother_ than this—

"The pizza," she echoes, her lips continuing to move even though she isn't, he's pretty sure, still actually talking. "The _pizza_."

Next to him, Marcus pouts at the sight of Daphne, Blaise, and Theo playing an awkwardly flirtatious, not-at-all street legal game of Spin the Bottle.

Meanwhile, Draco's vision is admittedly a little unfocused as he gazes at Hermione's mouth because she's wearing _lipstick_, Jesus _fuck_, and it's shiny and glossy and dark red and he wants to see it smeared all over his cock more than he wants to pass his _organic chemistry_ final next week and that—that's ridiculous. _She's _ridiculous. His _dick_ is ridiculous. Being repeatedly berated in a public setting by a strangely enthralling left-wing _harpy_ shouldn't give him a semi—especially not when his BAC is more than likely on the absolute wrong side of the decimal point.

"I'm just gonna go to bed," Marcus says, scrunching up his elf hat in one big, meaty hand. "Or maybe to the gym. Weight racks never let you down, you know? Weight racks don't lead you on and _lie_."

Hermione chokes.

"Fucking right they don't," Draco slurs, turning to fist-bump Marcus. "I'll make you a protein shake before you go, bro—and then when you get back we can drunk dial the _shit_ out of Pansy, it'll be _epic_, we can pretend to be Pucey and confront her about those crazy sex dreams she thinks none of us know about."

Hermione chokes _again_.

"Cookies and cream?" Marcus asks hopefully, expression decidedly morose as he glances around the house; every available surface has been draped in freshly cut garlands of Western Red Cedar and strands of twinkling multicolored lights because ever since they'd let Marcus decorate it's sort of been like living in the trailer-park edition of a Crate &amp; Barrel. "With half—"

"Half whole milk, half almond, my man," Draco confirms, clapping a supportive hand against Marcus's shoulder and propelling him towards the staircase. "I've got you. Just go get changed so you can go make that bench press your bitch. I'll be in the kitchen."

Hermione doesn't choke this time, but Draco isn't positive that the speculative look on her face is a much better reaction. He thinks it's probably not.

"That was nice of you," she remarks, voice only slightly stilted.

He squirms.

"Not really," he sniffs. "He just doesn't know how to use the Vitamix. Snape would have us cleaning that shit out of the grout with our _toothbrushes_ if we let Marcus loose in there."

Her lips twitch and her tongue curls around the ridge of her front teeth like she's trying to stave off a smile. Or maybe a grimace. She's incredibly difficult to read.

"Vitamix, huh?" she drawls. "How very one-percent of you."

Her tone is dry enough that he can't _quite _tell if she's joking or not. He doesn't think she is. The thought makes him bristle, which is—dangerous, honestly, considering his current state of mind, but also kind of _relieving_, too, because it means that this girl hasn't rendered him _completely_ fucking useless; just mostly. He decides that he can work with that.

"Yeah," he says seriously, "it's great—my dad's accountant even said I could deduct it as a moving expense when he does my taxes next year. Fucking _wicked _cool, right?"

Her cheeks flush an intriguing shade of pink.

"It's wicked _something_, certainly."

He offers her his most exaggerated shit-eating grin.

"Tell me, princess—what does that upper middle class hypocrisy of yours actually taste like?" he asks, chugging the last of his beer and taking an unsteady step towards the swinging kitchen door. "Is it sweet? Sour? _Umami_?"

She takes a deep, ostensibly calming breath and follows him into the kitchen.

"I'm beginning to understand why Harry wanted to break your nose," she says flatly. "I don't normally condone violence, but I think I could be persuaded to alter my stance on that if _you_ happened to be involved."

He sways on his feet as he searches for Marcus's gigantic tub of protein powder.

"Way to stand firm on the important issues and not let your personal feelings cloud your professional judgment," he returns easily, sneering at the tiny plastic cap covering the three-pronged plug of the Vitamix; it just seems so _unnecessary_. "_I'm _beginning to understand why you didn't get a call-back for mock trial."

"_How_ did you—no, you know what? It doesn't matter, I don't care, I'm not going to—to _debase myself_ and _argue_ with a—with a close-minded, conservative _caricature _of every last amoral, disgusting, stereotypical good ol' frat boy since _Animal House_, okay? I'm just not. So—if you could just—"

He cuts her off with the roaring whir of the blender.

"What was that, princess?" he yells, feigning ignorance. "You want to watch _Animal House_? American classic, right?"

She glowers.

He flicks the speed up on the Vitamix.

She stretches so that her lips are practically touching his ear.

And he thinks about her lipstick and then he thinks about her lipstick on his skin and then he thinks, again, about her lipstick on his _cock_ and—

By sheer force of his iron Malfoy will, he manages not to shiver.

"Cancel the pizza orders," she snarls. "All of them. Harry isn't even _home_ this weekend, and since we _live together_ and I'm supposed to be hosting my Latin study group's Saturnalia party tonight, I can't very well let the doorbell ring every fifteen minutes and expect anyone to remember their declensions, so—just—fucking—_cancel them_."

He switches the blender off.

He turns to face her.

He opens his mouth to respond wittily and scathingly and _awesomely_ but ultimately gets distracted by how soft and creamy her skin looks in the flickering kitchen light because he's _pathetic,_ Jesus _fuck_, and then—

"Mistletoe!" Marcus hollers from the doorway.

Hermione makes a high-pitched sound in the back of her throat that reminds Draco a little of his mother's extensive stable of Bavarian Warmbloods during breeding season.

"Did someone say _mistletoe_?!" the pin-up Mrs. Claus shrieks, stumbling into the kitchen with what looks like half her goddamn sorority and that same fucking communications major whose eyes are still _superglued_ to Hermione's ass, seriously, who the fuck does he think he—

"_Make them stop_," Hermione whispers anxiously, grabbing the lapel of Draco's Marc Jacobs reindeer cardigan.

"Um," he says. "What."

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" Marcus bellows over the chorus of the N*SYNC Christmas album; a really incomprehensibly large crowd has gathered, squeezing themselves into the narrow space around the kitchen island, and Draco can feel every inch of Hermione's body—_lithe and small and warm and pliant and fuck fuck_ _**fuck**_—pressed into his side as she stares out at the writhing mass of sorority girls with thinly veiled alarm.

"Malfoy, I swear to _God_—"

"_Mistletoe_!" the girls are chanting.

"It's just a kiss," he interjects, because despite his rapidly clearing head and newfound _desperate_ need for more alcohol, he legitimately doesn't see the big deal about a fucking _kiss_ under the fucking _mistletoe_.

"I don't want—I don't _want to_!" she insists, a shrill note of panic entering her voice.

And he has to glance down at her, then, because he's an asshole at the best of times, sure, but he's not _that_ kind of asshole and he isn't about to force this girl into anything she's _this_ uncomfortable doing, especially not when she's apparently frozen with—his stomach curls in on itself—either fear or apprehension, it doesn't really matter which, and she's clenching her hands into white-knuckled fists around the fabric of his cardigan and he hasn't ever been anyone's hero, hasn't ever cared to be, but he thinks about what he'd do if she was Pansy or Daphne or Astoria and he's wrapping an arm around her waist and hauling her through the crowd and out of the kitchen and they're standing in the shadows of the empty backyard veranda before he even realizes he's moved and—

"Your friends are _terrible_," she seethes, crossing her arms over her abdomen and inadvertently pushing her breasts together and _really_, he thinks in despair, just—_really_? He goes out of his goddamn way to sort of rescue the figurative distressed damsel and _actual torture _is his reward?

"Yeah," he agrees, belatedly. He pauses. "You're not going to, like…freak out, are you? Do I need to call someone? Potter?"

She eyes him with confusion and blatant distrust and it occurs to him somewhat vaguely that maybe it's for the best that he has a snowball's chance in hell with this girl—she seems like her inherent super-type-A personality issues even have issues, and that's…a lot of fucking issues. He has his own brand of crazy to work through. He doesn't have the energy to deal with hers, too.

"You'd do that? Call Harry? Even though you—I mean, the two of you—you have your _thing_? Your _fight_ thing?"

He furrows his brow.

"Yes?"

She studies his face for several moments—like she's memorizing his features and cataloguing his micro-expressions and searching for _meaning_ or order or chaos or who the fuck knows and he usually despises being looked at so intently, so earnestly, usually doesn't allow anyone close enough to even get the chance to try—but—

_But_—

He's a little drunk and a little wrecked and a little stupid and she's fucking _beautiful_.

"And you're not going to ask me what that—what happened? What that was all about in there?"

He lazily half-smiles at her question, crooked and _genuine_—because sometimes he forgets how open and honest and _direct_ other people can be. They say what they think as they think it and they equate masking their feelings with _weakness _rather than self-preservation and it's always so _bizarre _to be confronted like this—upfront and fucking personal—by their unwavering belief that honesty is a foregone conclusion.

"No," he replies, amused. "I'm not going to ask."

She swallows.

"Why not?"

He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and thinks wistfully about lying to her. He already knows he isn't going to.

"Because…well, two reasons, I guess," he muses, kicking at the sharp-edged gravel paving the yard around the veranda; he remembers that there used to be a rake for it, once upon a time, and absently wonders where it went. He guesses it's hidden with the stolen street signs in Theo's bathroom. "First—I don't really _want_ to ask. It's fifty-fifty, I figure, on whether or not you'll cry if I _do_, and crying girls are basically my kryptonite, so—thanks, but no thanks, right?"

Her lips curve up just the tiniest bit.

"And the second reason?"

He smirks.

"Full disclosure?"

She snorts.

"That seems like a dangerous proposition with you."

He ducks his head and looks away to hide his grin because Jesus _fuck_ does this girl not need to know how much he likes this—likes _her_.

"The second reason," he says, drawing the words out and trying not to stall too obviously, "is that if I was you…and you were me…and this was all reversed…"

"Yes?"

"You could ask," he shrugs, "but I wouldn't tell you the truth. I save the harrowing emotional bullshit for one-night-stands whose numbers I conveniently lose the next morning, you know?"

Her eyes widen with surprise and understanding and wonder and—resignation?

"Damn it," she sighs.

What?

"What?" he blurts out.

She just sighs again.

And then she's shaking her head and yanking his face down and into hers and she's kissing him fast and firm and _fierce_ and he really isn't sure what's going on but her tongue is involved and his hand is two-thirds of the way up the skirt of her dress and she's moaning into his mouth loud enough that he can feel the vibration of it in his fucking _tonsils_, shit, and her hips are rocking and his dick is hard and it's like every embarrassing wet dream he's had since the day he met her because he's brushing the tips of his fingers around and against and _under_ the scalloped lace edge of her panties and she _isn't stopping him_ and he processes damp cotton and slick, swollen flesh and a small, fine-boned hand massaging the head of his cock and he can't—

He _can't_.

His brain short-circuits.

His vision whites out.

It's _awesome_.

###

(9:22 am) _its been like a week since uve done anything stupid to potter_

(9:22 am) _r u sick_

(9:24 am) _**im literally in your guest room**_

(9:24 am) _**we just had breakfast together**_

(9:24 am) _**i made those disgusting buckwheat pancakes **_

(9:24 am) _**that you and your new stepdad think taste good**_

(9:24 am) _**chip off the old block there buddy**_

(9:25 am) _yeah_

(9:25 am) _but u whistled_

(9:25 am) _while u did it_

(9:25 am) _so_

(9:25 am) _i'll ask again bro_

(9:25 am) _r u sick_

(9:27 am) _?_

(9:28 am) _**do handjobs count as sex**_

(9:28 am) _what the fuck_

(9:28 am) _**it's a valid question**_

(9:29 am) _is this about the porn vince and greg downloaded on ur ipad_

(9:29 am) _**no of course not**_

(9:29 am) _**wait what**_

(9:29 am) _**?**_

(9:30 am) _nvm_

(9:30 am) _handjobs aren't sex_

(9:31 am) _daphne says_

(9:33 am) _**daphne is here?**_

(9:33 am) _**do you keep her in your closet or something jesus christ**_

(9:34 am) _why would i keep her in my closet_

(9:34 am) _thats creepy_

(9:34 am) _**shes always with you but shes somehow also always with pansy**_

(9:35 am) _**THAT'S creepy**_

(9:36 am) _whtever man_

(9:36 am) _she says shes gonna own ur ass in black ops later_

(9:36 am) _?_

(9:36 am) _u play call of duty together_

(9:36 am) _?_

(9:36 am) _when did that start_

(9:36 am) _and how come u didn't invite me_

(9:36 am) _low blow dude_

(9:37 am) _what do u guys even talk about_

(9:37 am) _marcus and pansy?_

(9:37 am) _me?_

(9:37 am) _?_

(9:37 am) _**you come up yeah**_

(9:37 am) _**occasionally**_

(9:37 am) _like_

(9:37 am) _in what context_

(9:39 am) _**let me put it this way**_

(9:39 am) _**i know way too fucking much about your sex life**_

(9:39 am) _**and i can never figure out if daphnes bragging or trying to scare me**_

(9:40 am) _bragging probably_

(9:40 am) _has she mentioned roleplaying at all_

(9:40 am) _?_

(9:40 am) _**jesus fuck**_

(9:40 am) _**so handjobs aren't sex**_

(9:40 am) _**whats the logic in that**_

(9:40 am) _bro_

(9:40 am) _pay attention_

(9:41 am) _**is it the lack of penetration**_

(9:41 am) _**that's it isn't it**_

(9:41 am) _what about threesomes_

(9:41 am) _did she mention those_

(9:42 am) _**blowjobs though**_

(9:44 am) _**blowjobs have to count**_

(9:45 am) _wait_

(9:45 am) _did someone give u a handjob_

(9:45 am) _?_

(9:45 am) _that sucks bro_

(9:46 am) _**seriously**_

(9:46 am) _**seriously blaise**_

(9:47 am) _last time u talked about handjobs_

(9:48 am) _we were in eighth grade_

(9:48 am) _u took up like a whole page in the back of my yearbook _

(9:48 am) _**exactly**_

(9:49 am) _**im basking in the exquisite warmth of my memories of our glory days**_

(9:49 am) _lol _

(9:49 am) _glory days_

(9:49 am) _**what**_

(9:50 am) _im just thinking about all the hair gel u used to go through_

###

He asks her to meet him for coffee two days before Christmas.

She says no.

He asks her to go see the new _Mission Impossible _movie with him the day _after_ Christmas because fuck anyone who thinks that Tom Cruise isn't still a badass.

She says no.

He asks her to dinner on the twenty-ninth, and he asks her to brunch on the thirtieth, and he asks her to come to Pansy's New Year's party with him on the thirty-first.

She says no.

She doesn't offer any flimsy excuses or attempt to lie to him about being busy—her rejections are polite and perfunctory, and the calm, collected, _apathetic _voice she uses when he calls her—

Well.

That shit stings.

###

(11:45 am) _u awake_

(11:50 am) _?_

(11:52 am) _**no**_

(11:54 am) _ur freaking everyone out_

(11:55 am) _daph says u spent all of last night doing shots in the kitchen w/ that weird communications major_

(11:55 am) _mclaggen_

(11:55 am) _u kept telling him u were 'comrades in the battlefield of love'_

(11:56 am) _and fist bumping_

(12:04 pm) _draco_

(12:10 pm) _?_

(12:11 pm) _seriously bro_

(12:19 pm) _we're worried _

(12:25 pm) _**how did you get daphne to agree to date you**_

(12:26 pm) _this is about a girl?_

(12:27 pm) _what the hell_

(12:27 pm) _who?_

(12:29 pm) _do u even know girls who aren't daphne and pansy_

(12:30 pm) _**fuck off**_

(12:31 pm) _**i know tons of girls**_

(12:31 pm) _**i live in a fucking frat house**_

(12:32 pm) _**as you like to point out ALL THE TIME when youre trying to justify your gigantic bisexual boner for theo**_

(12:33 pm) _bro_

(12:33 pm) _u used to hyperventilate when u talked to girls at parties_

(12:34 pm) _and literally miss ur mouth if u tried to take a sip of ur drink_

(12:35 pm) _u took pansy to all our formals in high school because u knew u wouldnt have to make out w/ her at the end of the night_

(12:35 pm) _ur like the worst with girls_

(12:36 pm) _daph calls u an awkward turtle_

(12:36 pm) _and i don't really get that reference_

(12:37 pm) _but_

(12:38 pm) _**i got to third base with potters hot best friend **_

(12:38 pm) _**at the christmas party**_

(12:38 pm) _**POTTERS BEST FRIEND**_

(12:39 pm) _**shes hot**_

(12:39 pm) _**that's important**_

(12:40 pm) _**but not as important as the part where shes POTTERS BEST FRIEND and therefore despises me on principle which makes hooking up with her even more impressive**_

(12:44 pm) _handjob girl?_

(12:44 pm) _i don't think that counts as third base bro_

(12:50 pm) _**you tricked daphne into dating you though**_

(12:50 pm) _**right**_

(12:51 pm) _**like she said no at first**_

(12:51 pm) _**and you had to really wear her down for awhile**_

(12:51 pm) _**right**_

(12:52 pm) _what the fuck_

(12:52 pm) _**you probably had to buy her a lot of presents**_

(12:53 pm) _um_

(12:53 pm) _**maybe show up at her window with a boombox**_

(12:53 pm) _u have a boombox?_

(12:53 pm) _where did u find that_

(12:54 pm) _**call her a few times a day**_

(12:54 pm) _sometimes she called me_

(12:55 pm) _**hack her twitter to triangulate her gps coordinates**_

(12:55 pm) _how do u even know how to do that_

(12:55 pm) _wait_

(12:55 pm) _no_

(12:56 pm) _nevermind_

(12:56 pm) _bro_

(12:56 pm) _remember what snape said about restraining orders_

(1:10 pm) _**false alarm**_

(1:10 pm) _**she doesnt have a twitter**_

###

He's leaving Dean &amp; Deluca when he sees Hermione Granger again.

It's the Saturday before the new semester starts and there's a thin layer of frost covering the asphalt in the parking lot; he's stocking up on burlap sacks of imported Bolivian coffee beans, crumbling wedges of Stilton bleu, and freshly emulsified blocks of quince paste. She's standing outside of Petco in a heather grey ASPCA sweatshirt and smiling kindly at a group of Girl Scouts asking to play with one of the Doberman puppies yipping from the inside of a gigantic cardboard crate—a flapping nylon banner above her head reads 'PET ADOPTIONS' in obnoxious red Comic Sans.

He gapes at her, crushes the keys to his Cayenne in a white-knuckled fist, and fucking _dithers_.

Because it's been sixteen days since he'd last attempted to contact her—or coerce her into dating him, whatever—and he doesn't know if he's supposed to leave her alone in _all _future social situations or if it's okay to casually approach her and pretend that he wants to adopt a Doberman.

His thumb bumps against a button on his keys.

It's _mostly _an accident.

The honking abrasive wail of his car alarm echoes around the parking lot, triggering a panicked miasma of barking from the puppies at Hermione's feet. She's quick to glance over her shoulder and search for the culprit as she coos soothingly at the dogs, and he offers her a sheepish, plaintive wave when she notices him wincing at the noise his car is making.

"Seriously?" she calls out, jerking her chin at his keys and scratching one of the puppies around the ears with practiced efficiency. "Turn it off!"

He fumbles to press the unlock button. The ensuing silence is weirdly fucking loud.

"Sorry about that," he says, sauntering over to her with his left hand tucked into the pocket of his fleece-lined black hoodie; he hasn't shaved since Monday, and he has on the same grey skinny jeans he'd worn the day before, but there's a promising pink flush on her cheeks as she watches him move closer and he thinks a little smugly that she might not be as immune to him as she wants him to believe she is.

"It's fine," she replies tersely, bringing the puppy up to her chest. Her eyes flick down, and then to the side, and then away from him altogether. "They're just startled."

He nods and crosses his arms over his lower abdomen.

"Yeah," he says. He clears his throat. "They're—cute. How old?"

Her brow furrows slightly and he can't really blame her because it's looking a lot like Blaise and Daphne were actually right about him being legitimately fucking terrible with girls.

_They're—cute._

_**Cute.**_

Jesus _fuck_, he might as well suit up and join the fucking Girl Scout troop that just left.

"Nine weeks," she answers, shaking her head. "Um—what are you doing here, Draco?"

He jiggles the handle of his white paper grocery bag.

"School supplies."

"Coffee?" she guesses.

"And cheese."

The dog rears up to lick her cheek.

"_Cheese_," Hermione says carefully. "_Cheese _is…school supplies."

"And cheese accoutrements, yes."

She blinks.

"You're _ridiculous_," she says, sounding dazed.

He flashes her a sly half-smile, which seems to fluster her, which is fucking fantastic.

"And I'm pretty sure you're going to strangle that dog if you hold onto it any tighter," he drawls. "So. You know. No one's perfect, right?"

She immediately loosens her grip on the puppy and turns around to put it back in the cardboard pen. She fusses with something he can't see for a minute. Her posture is visibly stiff.

"Right," she says, still not facing him. "Well, I'm sure you have tons of stuff to do—"

"Not really."

"—classes to register for—"

"Yeah, definitely did that in November."

"—high school friends to hang out with—"

"Kind of sick of them at this point, to be honest."

"—errands to run—"

"Nope, just the one."

"—laundry to do—"

"Housekeeper."

"—packing to finish—"

"I have a guy for that."

"—textbooks to buy—"

"Internet."

"—trying to be nice, but, look, we have nothing to talk about, so can you just—go? Please?"

He pauses at the '_please_' and it occurs to him that maybe he's been reading this whole situation wrong all along—maybe she really doesn't like him. Maybe he's been unwittingly playing the bumbling Marcus to her less-bitchy Pansy since the night of the Christmas party when he'd rescued her from the mistletoe and _Jesus fuck _had she given him some kind of _thank-you handjob?_ Did those exist?

"I could go, yeah," he replies slowly. "Just—I don't think it's all that accurate to say that we have _nothing_ to talk about, do you?"

She bends down to pet another puppy, and he cocks his head to the side as he rakes his eyes over the pronounced, heart-shaped curve of her ass; he doesn't stare, not exactly, but he doesn't _not stare_, either—there's a fine line between creepy and opportunistic and he gives approximately zero fucks about skating it.

"You're right," she says, straightening her back and turning to look at him. "That isn't accurate. We have plenty to talk about—I just don't _want_ to talk about it."

He licks his lips.

"Shouldn't _I_ be the one trying to avoid this conversation?" he asks curiously. "You know, because of—"

Her face darkens.

"Why?" she demands, cutting him off. "Because I'm a _girl _and therefore emotionally _incapable_ of appreciating the merits of no-strings-attached sex? That's it, isn't it? I swear to _God, _this _absurd _double standard women have to endure about what they can and cannot do with their own bodies while running the risk of—of being _slut-shamed_—"

"What? No, I didn't mean—" he interjects weakly.

"—and for _what_, so I can be deemed_ good enough _for some—some _asshole_ ex-frat-boy investment banker to agree to eventually _marry_? Two-point-five kids and a white picket fence in the suburbs, living the _dream_, but only if I publicly act like my hymen _reattaches itself _as a reward for every blowjob I give—"

"I _really_ didn't mean it like—"

"—disgusting objectification of our sexualities, like we're—we're _Pokémon_, or something, have to catch us all, triple points for a flexible blonde virgin without a gag reflex—"

"No! What are you—I meant—I meant _shouldn't I be trying to avoid this conversation_ because of _Potter_!" Draco finally whisper-shouts, dropping his forgotten Dean &amp; Deluca bag and taking an exasperated step forward.

She wrinkles her nose.

"_Excuse _me?"

He huffs.

"Because of my—_fight thing_ with him!" Draco explains, waving his arms. "He's your best friend! He's probably _crazy_ fucking protective of you, and the last time he saw me in person I _literally_ pushed him down a spiral staircase! A metal one! And before you go on another _tirade_ about how you can _take care of yourself_ and don't need him to interfere, I mostly—I meant—look, two of my best friends are girls, okay, and I'm fucking _terrified of them_ ninety percent of the time because they are terrifying and cunningand _terrifying_—but I'd still want to run Potter over with a fucking eighteen-wheeler if he ever looked twice at them, let alone did—what you and I did. It isn't a commentary on their gender, or mine, or yours, or—whatever—it's a commentary on how much I _love_ them and _hate_ Potter, and I'm going to go out on a fucking limb, here, and assume it'd be the same for him with you. And me. Okay?"

She lets her mouth hang open for a long, long moment and then snaps it shut.

Her expression softens, and then hardens, and then crumples with doubt and fear and frustration and _defeat_, which—shouldn't be attractive.

And it isn't.

At all.

But Jesus _fuck _she's still the prettiest girl he's ever seen.

"Damn it," she sighs, just like she had at the Christmas party.

_What?_

"What?" he asks cautiously, mostly because it had worked for him last time.

She just sighs again.

"This doesn't mean anything," she says, closing off the distance between them and winding the black woven laces of his hoodie around her fingers. "I don't want to date you. I don't have time for a relationship. This isn't—it's not serious. _We're_ not serious. No one can find out what we're doing, either, especially not—especially not Harry."

He smirks.

"And what is it we're doing, princess?"

She flattens her palms against his chest and scowls up at him and he's taken aback by how fucking _tiny _she is, the top of her head barely skimming the point of his chin. It fits her, though, he decides suddenly—he likes that she's dainty and feminine and _fragile_ on the outside, likes that she's searing and sharp and _volatile _on the inside—she's unpredictable in all the ways that make him nervous, and he kind of wants to keep her.

"You're _ridiculous_," she grits out, repeating her own words from earlier.

He curls his arms around her waist, folds her body into his, places his hands on her hips and _squeezes _just so he can watch her gasp and arch her back and press in a little closer.

"Yeah," he agrees solemnly, "I really am."

###

(2:00 pm) _**hey**_

(2:02 pm) _what do u want_

(2:02 pm) _im in class_

(2:02 pm) _**guess what**_

(2:03 pm) _no_

(2:03 pm) _**come on**_

(2:03 pm) _**one guess**_

(2:04 pm) _no_

(2:05 pm) _im learning_

(2:05 pm) _**bullshit**_

(2:05 pm) _**fifty bucks says you don't even know what class youre in right now**_

(2:07 pm) _fuck u_

(2:07 pm) _**just guess goddamn it**_

(2:07 pm) _NO_

(2:08 pm) _**please**_

(2:08 pm) _**i'll do you a solid and go to that wizards game with marcus next week**_

(2:09 pm) _u and i aren't interchangeable u know_

(2:09 pm) _hes going to eventually notice im not there_

(2:09 pm) _esp when u put on the CUSTOM FUCKING JERSEY he bought me_

(2:10 pm) _idk why he thinks i like basketball_

(2:10 pm) _**he didn't**_

(2:10 pm) _**did he really?**_

(2:10 pm) _is it because im black_

(2:10 pm) _**hold on**_

(2:11 pm) _**i need to see this**_

(2:15 pm) _**oh my god**_

(2:15 pm) _i know bro_

(2:15 pm) _like i love the guy_

(2:16 pm) _but_

(2:17 pm) _**oh my god**_

(2:17 pm) _sometimes i wish he wasnt so sensitive u know_

(2:17 pm) _**have you actually seen it**_

(2:17 pm) _**the jersey**_

(2:18 pm) _**?**_

(2:18 pm) _nah_

(2:18 pm) _why_

(2:18 pm) _**oh no reason**_

(2:18 pm) _**Z-BONE**_

(2:20 pm) _pls tell me this is one of ur really shitty jokes_

(2:20 pm) _**that hurts**_

(2:20 pm) _**z-bone**_

(2:20 pm) _**that hurts a lot**_

(2:20 pm) _ur such an asshole_

(2:20 pm) _**almost enough to distract me from the fact that you haven't guessed yet**_

(2:21 pm) _ur so annoying when ur in a good mood_

(2:22 pm) _**just take a guess z-bone**_

(2:23 pm) _idk_

(2:23 pm) _did u get another handjob_

(2:23 pm) _**ha**_

(2:23 pm) _**ive upgraded actually**_

(2:23 pm) _**but**_

(2:23 pm) _**no**_

(2:23 pm) _**incorrect**_

(2:24 pm) _did u finally manage to get potters name on the no fly list_

(2:25 pm) _**ugh**_

(2:25 pm) _**no**_

(2:26 pm) _**the tsa is literally run by fascists**_

(2:26 pm) _probably not_

(2:28 pm) _**anyway**_

(2:28 pm) _**z-bone**_

(2:28 pm) _**what you failed to guess **_

(2:29 pm) _srsly stop calling me that_

(2:30 pm) _**is that **_

(2:30 pm) _i'll tell snape u let marcus use the vitamix_

(2:30 pm) _**IT'S MAN CRUSH MONDAY**_

(2:30 pm) _oh fuck off_

(2:30 pm) _**and do you know what that means**_

(2:31 pm) _**DO YOU BLAISE**_

(2:31 pm) _why am i still friends w/ u_

(2:32 pm) _**OF COURSE YOU DO**_

(2:32 pm) _no_

(2:32 pm) _**IT MEANS THAT YOU CAN FINALLY ACT ON THE EPIC HOMOEROTIC SUBTEXT OF YOUR FRIENDSHIP WITH THEO**_

(2:32 pm) _stop_

(2:32 pm) _**#mcm**_

(2:32 pm) _seriously_

(2:32 pm) _**#thlaise**_

(2:33 pm) _really bro?_

(2:33 pm) _**#bleo**_

(2:33 pm) _no_

(2:33 pm) _**YES**_

(2:35 pm) _**i don't know what your hang up about him is**_

(2:36 pm) _**daphnes on board**_

(2:39 pm) _**like**_

(2:39 pm) _**REALLY on board**_

(2:39 pm) _**like im uncomfortable talking about it with her shes so on board**_

(2:44 pm) _**anyway**_

(2:46 pm) _what the fuck is matlab_

(2:47 pm) _and do we rlly have an engineering school_

(2:49 pm) _?_

(2:50 pm) _**youre a moron**_

(2:51 pm) _**this is why you dont wake and bake with vince and greg before your registration appointments**_

(2:51 pm) _**z-bone**_

(2:52 pm) _yeah_

(2:53 pm) _that was a bad call_

(2:54 pm) _**and you owe me fifty bucks **_

(2:54 pm) _**dipshit**_

(2:54 pm) _**i fucking knew you didnt know what class you were in**_

###

Time passes.

Draco readily agrees to Hermione's weird relationship rules—one of which is to never, ever, _ever _refer to their relationship _as_ an actual relationship because _were aren't serious, Draco _and _I don't have time for that, Draco _and _Harry would castrate you, Draco_—and she starts to use his bedroom as a secondary-library-slash-storage-unit for the admittedly pretty fearsome hoard of reference books she's always carrying around. She doesn't like PDA, often refuses to let him pay for dinner, and won't follow him on any of her social media accounts on the off-chance that Potter sees and throws a temper tantrum. Draco occasionally wonders why he isn't more offended by her attitude towards him—towards _them_—but realizes at the end of January that he _gets_ _it_, gets why she's so adamant about keeping whatever's between them surface-deep and casual—because he isn't all that sure he knows what label he'd put on it—on _them_—even if she gave him the opportunity to try.

It's confusing.

_She's _confusing.

She vehemently denies being his girlfriend, but can't seem to stop _doing things_ that he recognizes from all the romantic comedies Pansy's made him watch over the years as _very, very girlfriend-y._

She replaces Draco's organic no-stir peanut butter with something in a mason jar that's grainy and free-trade and gross and apparently comes from a farmer's market. She installs an ugly blue plastic recycling bin in the kitchen when she notices the trash bags full of beer cans stacked in the corner of the living room. She smacks sloppy kisses on his cheek and his neck and his forehead when her alarm goes off in the mornings—_way _earlier than she technically needs to be awake, but her neuroses are both widely varied and incredibly persistent so he stops complaining about them sometime in the beginning of February—and she proofreads his paper on the contemporary political symbolism that can be found in the incestuous relationships depicted in _Game of Thrones_—_you're totally a Stark, _he tells her fondly, _all that 'death before dishonor' shit_—and she begins sorting his laundry for him after she witnesses him ball up a cherry-red Lacoste polo and chuck it in the washing machine with his white socks and undershirts.

He goes down on her for the first time on Valentine's Day—she had just summarily rejected the sterling silver sapphire-pendant necklace he'd presented her with over dinner at a vegan steakhouse, and he had been _pissed_ and maybe a little petulant because there is not enough salt _in the world_ to make chargrilled tempeh and chickpea oil taste even _remotely_ like anything he actually wants to eat—and he takes a somewhat frightening amount of pleasure in watching her come and come and _come _with his teeth around her clit and three of his fingers curled up inside her cunt.

Which—

Okay.

He can acknowledge, even if it's only to himself, that there's an odd, almost _competitive _edge to the sex they have; it's always aggressive, always exhausting, and always fueled by something complicated and mysterious that makes his blood run burning and rampant and _violent_ in his veins because she's gorgeous, yeah, gorgeous and intriguing and so, _so_ smart—but she's also _really_ fucking _irritating_.

She religiously watches the _Daily Show_ and she leaves an astonishing number of flannel shirts in the drawer he clears out for her in his dresser and she maintains a blog that she claims is about feminism but seems to be mostly made up of cat memes and ferociously mean jokes about the French prime minister. She listens to shitty underground indie bands, her favorite movie is a toss-up between _Titanic_ and _Apocalypse Now, _and she loyally attends all of Potter's soccer games despite her obvious disdain for organized sports and what they represent in a large-scale societal context.

It's a conundrum.

_She's _a conundrum.

Draco wonders what, exactly, it is about her that has him acting like a belligerent lovelorn idiot—he wants to dismiss his infatuation as purely physical, a helpless chemical reaction to her legs or her ass or her eyes, to the softness of her skin beneath his lips or the fever-hot clutch of her cunt around his cock. It would be easier, he thinks, if their not-a-relationship-but-kind-of-still-a-relationship…_thing_ was only about sex. He could deal with her cagey, awkward evasiveness when he brings up her other friends—a family of tall, obnoxious redheads he's never met—and her strangely desperate attempts to change the subject when he brings up her plans for the summer—receptionist duties for her parents' dental practice in Alexandria—and her knee-jerk instinctive annoyance when he brings up Potter and what Potter might say once he inevitably finds out about Draco and Hermione's not-a-relationship-but-kind-of-still-a-relationship…_thing_.

He could deal with all of that if it was only about sex, but—

It _isn't_.

It isn't only about sex, and it's a big fucking problem.

In April, he surprises her with tickets to a resort in Ibiza for an epic spring break sex-cation; she bites her lip—more fucking kryptonite, Jesus _fuck_—and then dryly informs him that she's already signed on for a Habitat for Humanity project in Alabama. He isn't sure how it happens—shameless manipulation and exaggerated pouting and fucking _sorcery_, no doubt—but he winds up sharing a lumpy queen-sized bed with her in a shitty airport Marriott in Mobile and getting motherfucking _blisters_ from lugging around power tools and impossibly enormous sheets of plywood. It isn't really worth the sunburn or the splinters or the sweat—at least, it isn't until he glances at his own reflection in the shiny new windowpane he's installing and catches the expression on her face when she looks at him—when she thinks he can't see her—and it's soft and it's wistful and it hits him like a fucking sucker punch to the kidney because he wants _more_.

It's dangerous.

_She's _dangerous.

They have a Serious Fight in mid-May—a cheerful, middle-aged waitress at an off-campus diner famous for its cinnamon French toast and hollandaise calls Hermione his _girlfriend_ as she's dropping off the check and Draco doesn't bother correcting her because hashing out the bizarre complexities of the not-a-relationship-but-kind-of-still-a-relationship…_thing_ that he has going on with Hermione seems a little preposterous, honestly, especially when they're not around anyone they legitimately have to _explain_ themselves to. So—he just smiles and extracts two twenties from his wallet and doesn't notice how quiet Hermione's gotten until they're sitting in his car and he's turning on the air conditioning and absently reaching for her hand like he always does and she—she pulls away, which is weird, but then the next fifteen minutes are jam-packed with _we agreed it wasn't like that, Draco _and _you should've said something, Draco_, and _stop thinking this is something that it isn't, Draco_ and it's like the worst, mostly viciously timed wake-up call he's ever had because_ I don't understand what the big deal is, Hermione_ and _you could have just as easily said something back there, Hermione _and _sorry if someone thinking you're my girlfriend is such an offense to your fucking superiority complex, Hermione_—

They don't talk for two weeks.

He wants to fix it, fix _them_, wants to apologize, even if he doesn't mean it, wants to _chase her_ like he's been chasing her for months, since the night they met, since the night she poured coffee down the front of his coat and stole his breath and his voice and his _sanity_, Jesus _fuck_, but he isn't stupid. He can't fix it, he can't apologize, and he's fucking _tired_ of chasing her. Maybe, he thinks bitterly, _she_ should have to fix it; maybe _she _should have to apologize.

She doesn't, of course, but she does show up at the end of the month with her textbooks and a binder full of color-coded notes and a shaky, miserable-looking half-smile that makes him wonder if she hadn't missed him almost as much as he'd missed her; he hesitates before he lets her into his room, though, and he watches her fidget guiltily with the edge of a pillowcase—_her_ pillowcase, _her_ side of the bed, hers hers _hers_ because she'd carved a place into his life that had felt really fucking empty when she hadn't been there and he doesn't know how to tell her that, doesn't know how to articulate all the ways that his feelings for her have spiraled out of control—but then he's striding towards her and dragging her to her feet and _kissing_ her and neither of them have actually _said _anything and—he doesn't care about talking, not just yet, not when he has something else to prove, something else to _remind her _of.

He bends her over the front of his dresser, bunches her sundress up around her hips, fucks her from behind—_keep your eyes open_, he murmurs, _mirror's right there, baby, come on, watch yourself come, just like that_—and he can pinpoint the precise moment she realizes what he's doing; what he's making her _see_.

It's painful.

_She's _painful.

And when finals roll around in early June, he's pretty sure she stops sleeping—she drinks all of his Bolivian coffee, goes through four-packs of Red Bull with an efficiency that would be alarming if it wasn't so impressive, and randomly bursts into tears if he tries to gently direct her to a bed or a couch or a bottle of Nyquil, Jesus _fuck_. She passes out on his chest the night before her formal debate for her economic policies class and wakes up in a small puddle of her own drool, frantic and pink-cheeked and fretful and there's something about the trembling in her fingers as she does up the zipper on her pencil skirt that reminds him of the Christmas party, of her wild-eyed panic underneath the mistletoe—so he kisses her goodbye, suffers through the written portion of his international relations exam, and resolves to surprise her with a half-dozen of those disgusting red bean paste mochi she likes so much when she's done with her debate. Except she isn't done when he gets there and it's fucking _hot_ outside, hot and humid and awful, so he sneaks into the back of the lecture hall to watch her, really hoping she might make someone cry—winning arguments always makes her horny and fuck yeah he is _here_ for that—but that isn't what's happening.

No.

His eyebrows climb up and up and up, and his hands tighten around the Japanese bakery box, and he can't do anything but _stare_ as Hermione completely falls apart.

_Stage fright_, he thinks clinically. _Fear of crowds—singular attention—public speaking. Bombed her mock trial audition. Hyperventilated when confronted by a swarm of sorority girls. Heightened distress reflex and debilitating insomnia triggered by nerves and anxiety and—_

He slinks out of the auditorium and leans against the wall next to the double doors and considers what to do with this unexpected new piece of the puzzle that is his not-a-relationship-but-kind-of-still-a-relationship…_thing _with Hermione. She didn't confide in him, didn't willingly disclose her vulnerability, and that leads him to conclude that there is a Story, here, probably about her Past, and he'd be a fucking idiot to push her into sharing it with him before she's ready to. He's a politician's son, after all—he understands secrets, understands the value of keeping an emotional ledger, of liability checks and balances, of leveraging strength and camouflaging weakness. So. No. He won't push her, not about this.

Other things, though—

_Relationship _things—

He's going to push those, he decides abruptly.

It's important.

_She's _important.

###

(03:22 am) _**so**_

(03:22 am) _**you know how i've been MIA all semester**_

(03:23 am) _what_

(03:24 am) _**and i'm always busy when you want to come over**_

(03:25 am) _**so you have to hang out with theo or marcus or vince and greg instead**_

(03:25 am) _uh_

(03:25 am) _sure_

(03:25 am) _yeah_

(03:25 am) _super lame bro_

(03:25 am) _**well**_

(03:26 am) _**theres a reason for that**_

(03:26 am) _i know_

(03:26 am) _ur boning handjob girl_

(03:26 am) _props_

(03:27 am) _ur eighth grade self would be proud of ur progress_

(03:28 am) _**oh fuck you**_

(03:28 am) _nah_

(03:28 am) _theos more my type_

(03:28 am) _…and daphnes_

(03:28 am) _**FINALLY**_

(03:29 am) _yeah_

(03:29 am) _finally_

(03:33 am) _**i want to introduce her to you guys**_

(03:33 am) _ur girl?_

(03:33 am) _didnt u say it wasnt serious_

(03:34 am) _?_

(03:34 am) _**it wasn't**_

(03:34 am) _**it isn't**_

(03:34 am) _**technically**_

(03:34 am) _**but it SHOULD be**_

(03:34 am) _oh god_

(03:34 am) _**and she KNOWS that**_

(03:35 am) _she probably doesnt_

(03:35 am) _**shes just fucking stubborn**_

(03:35 am) _draco_

(03:35 am) _**so im taking matters into my own hands**_

(03:35 am) _pls dont_

(03:36 am) _**and since she finds my devotion to all of you assholes endearing**_

(03:38 am) _devotion?_

(03:39 am) _what the fuck_

(03:39 am) _**she'll probably fucking SWOON if she sees us in our natural habitat**_

(03:39 am) _**of togetherness**_

(03:40 am) _**or whatever**_

(03:40 am) _bro_

(03:40 am) _no_

(03:41 am) _**its a solid plan**_

(03:41 am) _this is a bad plan_

(03:42 am) _**i just need to figure out a way to neutralize pansy**_

(03:42 am) _oh my god_

(03:42 am) _**she can be a little much at first you know**_

(03:43 am) _this is not going to go how u think its going to go_

(03:43 am) _**i also need to find potter a fucking girlfriend**_

(03:43 am) _bro_

(03:44 am) _**he dumped his old one apparently**_

(03:44 am) _**and hes like the neediest platonic friend ever**_

(03:44 am) _what are u even talking about_

(03:45 am) _**swear to god**_

(03:46 am) _pls stop_

(03:47 am) _**do you think pansy would go for him**_

(03:48 am) _y r u always throwing pansy at people_

(03:48 am) _**it would be convenient if she did**_

(03:48 am) _her dad has so many weapons_

(03:49 am) _**this is gonna be the best summer ever man**_

(03:49 am) _**im fucking PUMPED **_

(03:50 am) _no_

###

On the last day of June, Draco invites Hermione to Daphne's annual Fourth of July party.

That is, it turns out, a really fucking colossal mistake.

###


	2. Part Two

**Bite Marks**

_By: Provocative Envy_

###

**PART TWO**

_-Summer-_

###

It happens like this.

There are frozen strawberry margaritas and coolers full of electric blue Otter Pops. There's a viciously competitive beer pong tournament out on the deck, a math major home from Cornell taking bets and calculating odds, and a turquoise tear-shaped swimming pool teeming with 'Murica-themed toys—Draco isn't sure where Daphne even _found_ an inflatable shotgun, but Pansy spends fifteen minutes looking really fucking smug when he tries to ask, so he figures he's better off not knowing.

The city-sanctioned fireworks start at ten.

The fireworks of dubious-but-likely-illegal-origin start about an hour later.

Hermione doesn't show up.

Draco stops bothering with his margarita glass and begins to drink straight from the pitcher.

Hermione doesn't answer his texts.

Pansy and Daphne produce a twinkling, glitter-embossed red headband with spring-loaded blue-and-white cat ears, and they recruit Marcus and Theo to assist them in pinning Draco to a deck chair before they use novelty American flag duct-tape to affix the entire fucking monstrosity to the top of his head.

Hermione doesn't take his calls.

He accidentally squeezes the sticky sweet melted remnants of an Otter Pop all over his shredded vintage Sex Pistols tank top and then hazily decides that it's motherfucking _summer_, shit, and if he wants to lounge around Daphne's backyard in nothing but his pink nylon tennis shorts then he's fucking _going to_.

Hermione continues to not show up.

Blaise quietly confiscates Draco's phone just as the chemical engineering guys from Georgia Tech begin to bring out homemade sparklers and a box of something they pretty ominously refuse to identify but insist is _only a fire hazard if we let it be, man_.

Still no Hermione.

The cops knock on the door shortly after midnight. Draco watches Pansy duck into Daphne's weird neighbor's basement and snorts out a laugh as he helps Blaise and Theo roll the keg into the bottom of the pool; it's a fucking stupid idea, and there are enough empty tequila bottles in the kitchen to basically _guarantee_ that it won't work, but Draco has a super jarring moment of _clarity_ as he's bending down to turn off the underwater lights—

_Hermione _had been a fucking stupid idea, too.

And when Blaise passes him his phone while they're sprawled out in Daphne's game room finishing off a six-pack of IPAs from Draco's emergency stash and lamenting Pansy's pseudo-arrest, he sees the blinking red notification for a single unread text and somehow just _knows_ it's from Hermione.

He swipes his finger across the screen.

(12:56 am) _I have work tomorrow. Didn't want to have to make such a long drive in the morning. I'll talk to you soon._

His stomach sort of…_clenches_, and he immediately feels queasy. He blames the alcohol.

So.

Yeah.

It happens like that.

###

(4:55 pm) _daphne says ur angsting _

(4:55 pm) _**daphne is a liar**_

(4:55 pm) _**and she cheats at video games**_

(4:55 pm) _**she can't be trusted**_

(4:55 pm) _**also she made up that word**_

(4:56 pm) _look_

(4:56 pm) _i want to talk about ur weird girl problems about as much as u do bro_

(4:56 pm) _but ur growing a grief beard and its freaking ppl out_

(4:57 pm) _**what girl problems**_

(4:58 pm) _**there are no girl problems**_

(4:58 pm) _**there's not even really a girl**_

(4:59 pm) _**there's a fucking SUCCUBUS**_

(4:59 pm) _**who likes TOFU**_

(4:59 pm) _**and watches CSPAN **_

(4:59 pm) _**and has metaphorically given me one of those super lame rejection hotline numbers after flirtatiously accepting drinks from me all night at the bar**_

(5:00 pm) _**except instead of drinks**_

(5:00 pm) _**it was EMOTIONS**_

(5:01 pm) _**my emotions**_

(5:02 pm) _**fucking**_

(5:02 pm) _**succubus**_

(5:02 pm) _u done_

(5:02 pm) _**unlikely**_

(5:03 pm) _whatever_

(5:03 pm) _pack a bag_

(5:04 pm) _we'll be there in 10_

(5:04 pm) _**who**_

(5:04 pm) _**what**_

(5:04 pm) _**what kind of bag**_

(5:05 pm) _**i don't pack**_

(5:05 pm) _**i have a guy for that**_

(5:05 pm) _me and theo and marcus_

(5:06 pm) _u need a weekend w/ ur bros_

(5:06 pm) _and theos parents still have that house on the cape_

(5:06 pm) _i guess everyone forgot about it in the divorce_

(5:07 pm) _**i got alcohol poisoning last time we went there**_

(5:07 pm) _yeah_

(5:07 pm) _and u swore off vodka_

(5:08 pm) _and then we went to that microbrewery in portsmouth_

(5:08 pm) _and u had a religious experience_

(5:08 pm) _so_

(5:09 pm) _u got a happy ending bro_

(5:09 pm) _man up_

(5:10 pm) _**is this like a couples retreat**_

(5:10 pm) _**is marcus my date**_

(5:10 pm) _**are you and theo sharing a bed**_

(5:11 pm) _**will there be cuddling**_

(5:11 pm) _this is why no one does nice things for u _

###

"Wait, so this girl _friend-zoned_ you?" Daphne asks, wincing in sympathy. "After you followed her to, like, _the actual bible belt_ for spring break? _Seriously_?"

Draco drops the remaining half of his Oreo into a tall glass of milk.

"Don't call it that," he says, automatically. "The term 'friend-zone' implies that platonic male-female friendships are entirely predicated on the notion that men can only be interested in women for sex, not the wholesome, enriching companionship that exists between intellectual equals. It's insulting. And wrong. And a travesty. And…something about patriarchy. Slut-shaming. Et cetera."

Daphne stares at him, unblinking, and continues to gnaw on the stringy end of her celery stick.

"Um."

He squints across the kitchen island; the stainless steel range built into the grey-and-white granite has twelve tightly coiled burners, which—Jesus _fuck_, are Daphne's parents even home often enough to remember their goddamn zip code, let alone use all of those—and he can practically physically _hear _Hermione making a snide, snotty remark about _the one-percent_ and _catered dinner parties_ and he fucking _misses_ her, shit, why is he so _pathetic_—

"Anyway, no, no friend-zone," he finally says, clearing his throat. "We've been boning since January. I just…it's like this, Daph—we're _in_ a relationship, right? Like, she _has a drawer_, we spend _all_ our fucking time together, she made me buy her tampons and this weird imported caramel ice cream the time she got her period during midterms and she didn't want to stop studying—"

"Um."

"—and she refuses to admit she does it, okay, but she _definitely_ bribes me with sex, I don't care if that's somehow _anti-feminist_, she fucking does it, she gave me a blowjob in the _library_ after I got a ninety-seven on my calc final—"

Abruptly, he cuts himself off and stuffs an Oreo in his mouth.

Daphne's phone buzzes cheerily from where it rests next to the open package of cookies, and she reaches for it slowly, eyes glued to Draco's face, as if she's trying not to startle a wild animal.

"Right, so, like…we'll totally have to address the having sex in public thing soon—because Blaise won't even, like, hit a grounder and slide into second when we go out to dinner, he's a total prude, like, what does he think tablecloths are even _for_—but Pansy apparently met some people at the puppy palace who go to school with you and she either wants to ruin their lives or become best friends with them, it's super hard to tell with her, fucking love that bitch—so—question, do you know someone named Harry Potter?"

Draco chokes.

###

(6:55 pm) _**my dads such a dictator**_

(6:55 pm) _**"our ties have to match, its an election year draco"**_

(6:56 pm) _**"why didn't you cut your hair you look like a dirty san francisco hippie draco"**_

(6:56 pm) _**"teach me how to change my profile picture on twitter, my publicist is on another xanax bender and is ignoring me draco"**_

(6:57 pm) _**hes a dick**_

(6:57 pm) _**no**_

(6:57 pm) _**wait**_

(6:58 pm) _**hes a DICK-tator**_

(7:04 pm) _wow_

(7:04 pm) _you been saving that one?_

(7:04 pm) _for like a special occasion_

(7:06 pm) _**half the shit he says doesn't even make sense**_

(7:06 pm) _**like**_

(7:07 pm) _**we're in tuxedos**_

(7:07 pm) _**our ties already match**_

(7:08 pm) _i think pansys got a thing for potter_

(7:09 pm) _**REALLY?**_

(7:09 pm) _**TELL ME EVERYTHING**_

(7:10 pm) _um_

(7:10 pm) _…kind of an overreaction, man_

(7:10 pm) _but_

(7:11 pm) _she did that thing she does where she bitches about something for thirty minutes and then says she refuses to talk about it anymore cuz she hates it so much but then whenever i tried to change the subject shed like_

(7:11 pm) _bring potter back up_

(7:12 pm) _it was weird_

(7:12 pm) _**classic pansy**_

(7:12 pm) _**why express romantic interest like a normal person when you can antagonize them into submission instead**_

(7:13 pm) _yeah_

(7:14 pm) _and i don't really know him u know_

(7:15 pm) _so_

(7:15 pm) _**interesting**_

(7:16 pm) _**i ate so much gelato with marcus today**_

(7:17 pm) _hazelnut?_

(7:17 pm) _**fuck yeah**_

(7:20 pm) _did u give daph ideas about having sex in public again btw_

(7:21 pm) _because_

(7:21 pm) _bro_

(7:21 pm) _not cool_

###

Draco uses the key Pansy's dad keeps under a potted fichus plant next to the front door and lets himself into the house. It's a little after three in the afternoon. He knows that Pansy's at the animal shelter—_with Hermione_, he thinks acidly—and that her dad is at work. What he's doing is creepy, possibly, but he's so fucking—he's so fucking _overwhelmed_ by everything that had happened, overwhelmed by the disappointment and the anger and the strange, bone-deep weariness that had taken root in his body once he'd realized that he'd been wrong.

Jesus _fuck_ had he been wrong.

He drags himself up the stairs in Pansy's house, runs his hands across the cool, cast-iron railing—out of habit, he makes his way into her bedroom, collapsing face-first onto her purple satin duvet and then releasing a long, unsteady breath. Because he doesn't want to _talk_ to anyone, doesn't want to listen to Blaise's matter-of-fact '_it'll get better'_ or Daphne's indignant _'give me her address, I can set the bitch straight'_ or Theo's wry, uncomprehending '_what did you __**think **__was going to happen, man_?'

Draco clenches his jaw and balls his right hand into a fist.

Hermione had _lied_. He isn't sure why he's so shocked; why he's so hurt. Their relationship—and _oh_, does he fucking _hate_ that word now—it had been painfully one-sided. He'd assumed that what he'd felt for her had been reciprocated, at least a little bit, and that it would only be a matter of time before she came around and admitted that they were _together_, that he was hers and she was his and _fuck_ whatever Potter had to say about them—he'd get over it, see how happy Draco made her; it would work out.

Except—

She was never going to come around. She was never going to admit that they were together. She was never going to call him hers and she was never going to call herself his and Potter had had _plenty _to say about them—and Draco had watched Hermione flinch at all of it.

She'd _compartmentalized_.

That's what she'd said.

She'd let Draco into one small section of her life—isolated and neatly barricaded from everyone and everything else she loved—and she'd kept him there. Permanently.

He punches one of Pansy's ridiculous frilly white throw pillows.

The confrontation at the animal shelter had been…_illuminating_, honestly—because Hermione had been so infuriatingly fucking _defensive_, like she'd known that she had something to be guilty about but wasn't quite willing to concede defeat, not yet, and Potter had blustered and bitched and been generally obnoxious while he continued to sneak glances at Pansy's bare legs—which, in retrospect, made a lot of the batshit crazy accusations that had flown around seem much more reasonable, but—

It had sucked.

It had really fucking sucked.

Because Draco isn't used to things not going his way. He hadn't heard 'no' very often before he'd met Hermione—he's bad with girls, yeah, especially ones he likes, but he's a motherfucking _Malfoy_; he drives a Porsche and he has impeccable table manners and he's tall and blonde and attractive enough that getting laid has never exactly been a _problem_ for him. He knows what his world looks like to outsiders, though, knows what Hermione's initial opinion of him had been—spoiled and selfish, privileged and pandered to, an upper-crust pretty boy with more money than common sense—but he'd thought—

He'd _thought_—

He sighs into the extravagant cushion-top of Pansy's mattress.

He'd thought that Hermione had been something different for him—that he'd been something different for her.

He'd been fucking _mistaken_. Obviously.

"Oh, my God, are you seriously doing your whole _woe-is-me-I-will-never-love-again_ Romeo routine in my _bedroom_? Really, Draco? And are you—are you wearing _sweatpants_? What the fuck? I swear to God, if you put socks on with your sandals—"

He lifts his head and glares at the doorway.

"My sweatpants are _cashmere_, it's not like I raided a fucking Foot Locker," he retorts. "And—I'm sorry, which one of us is wearing a _red leather mini-skirt_ to our community service hours?"

Draco thinks, kind of smugly, that if Pansy had still been physically capable of blushing she would have been.

"Whatever," she says, dismissively. "Grab your keys. And your wallet."

He groans.

"Why? I'm brooding."

She rolls her eyes.

"You're such a loser. We're going shopping, okay? There's a totally bitchin' pair of ankle boots at Nordstrom that I want and if you promise not to cry on the suede leather fringe I'll let you talk about Hermione for twenty minutes."

He considers her offer.

"Thirty minutes," he counters, "and we have to stop for gelato."

Her expression turns sly.

"Hazelnut?"

He nods grimly.

"Marcus is an equal-opportunity enabler."

"He's also, like, really invested in dairy products. Have you seen what he makes his protein shakes with?"

"He tried to plan a road trip to Vermont for our bro-weekend. For cheese. He mentioned a guided factory tour."

Her lips twitch, and his stomach feels a little less like it's going to implode on itself, and he remembers, suddenly, why Pansy's been his best friend for as long as he's known her.

"Come on," she says, more gently. "You can eat your feelings while I try on shoes."

###

(2:22 pm) _hey_

(2:22 pm) _where u at_

(2:25 pm) _**im with marcus**_

(2:26 pm) _isn't he at a nationals game right now_

(2:27 pm) _oh shit_

(2:27 pm) _u went with him?_

(2:27 pm) _bro_

(2:27 pm) _ouch_

(2:27 pm) _he gets so rowdy during baseball season_

(2:27 pm) _how r u doing though_

(2:27 pm) _pansy told us what happened the other day_

(2:27 pm) _**you know how marcus thinks you're all into basketball**_

(2:27 pm) _**because you're black**_

(2:28 pm) _we cant prove that_

(2:28 pm) _**he thinks im all into baseball**_

(2:28 pm) _**because im white**_

(2:28 pm) _u r pretty white tho_

(2:29 pm) _**like**_

(2:29 pm) _**he had skynyrd playing on repeat **_

(2:30 pm) _**the whole drive here**_

(2:30 pm) _**and has referred to baseball as "america's favorite pastime" three times now**_

(2:30 pm) _**THREE TIMES**_

(2:30 pm) _at least he didn't get u a custom jersey_

(2:32 pm) _**do you honestly believe he didn't**_

(2:32 pm) _**like**_

(2:33 pm) _**really?**_

(2:33 pm) _**you really believe that?**_

(2:35 pm) _idk_

(2:35 pm) _nothing can be worse than z-bone_

(2:36 pm) _and quit changing the subject_

(2:36 pm) _daph says ur cocooning urself in a blanket of self-loathing_

(2:37 pm) _which_

(2:37 pm) _must be like the turtle thing cuz_

(2:37 pm) _i don't get it_

(2:37 pm) _but_

(2:40 pm) _**d-dawg**_

(2:40 pm) _**im d-dawg **_

(2:41 pm) _**let that sink in**_

(2:41 pm) _**just**_

(2:41 pm) _**LET IT SINK IN**_

(2:43 pm) _marcus is so out of control _

(2:46 pm) _**they sell margaritas here**_

(2:47 pm) _**everyones out of control**_

(3:05 pm) _u know if ud actually done something wrong_

(3:06 pm) _something that would make what this girl did and said to u okay_

(3:06 pm) _u know id tell u right_

(3:46 pm) _**why do hot dogs need to be a foot long**_

(3:46 pm) _**it seems unnecessary**_

(3:46 pm) _**and suggestive**_

(3:46 pm) _**sexually suggestive**_

(3:47 pm) _u didn't do anything wrong bro_

(3:47 pm) _she did_

(3:48 pm) _okay?_

(3:48 pm) _**peanut shells taste like cardboard**_

(3:49 pm) _**fuck that noise**_

###

He's digging into a huge bowl of Lucky Charms—drowning in milk and drizzled with stripes of dark chocolate syrup and too-sweet marshmallow fluff—when he hears a tentative knock coming from the open door of his mother's sunroom. He glances over, cheeks puffed up with two mouthfuls of cereal, and sees Hermione standing in the doorway, arms crossed protectively over her chest—she's in cut-off denim shorts and a sleeveless plaid collared shirt. Her hair is swept back from her forehead with a grey cotton headband. He thinks she looks faintly nauseous, and the thought is much less satisfying than he wants it to be.

Jesus _fuck_ is he weak.

"Your—um—your housekeeper let me in," she says haltingly, scratching at the side of her neck. She still hasn't stepped into the room. "I tried to call, but you…"

"I've been ignoring you," he interjects with forced nonchalance. "Figured you did it enough to me that the favor could use some returning, you know?"

Her mouth does something weird, lips tightening and jaw jutting forward, but then she's sniffling and blinking a lot and staring up at the tinted glass ceiling like she's fucking waiting for it to tell her what to do and Draco's eyes widen with unrestrained _panic_ as he realizes that _she's about to cry_.

"I deserve that," she says, throwing her shoulders back. She finally meets his gaze. He's—confused. This isn't really going how it's supposed to be going. "I—I deserve that."

"Yeah," he says, tone cloudy with suspicion. "You do."

She swallows, and then she swallows again, and then her face just kind of _crumples_.

"Can you—can you turn around, please? I have—a lot to say to you, and I really—I really—" she breaks off, voice cracking ominously, and Draco's alarm intensifies.

"Hermione—"

She flaps her hands at him.

"Just—don't look at me!" she wails, nostrils flaring and cheeks wet and oh _fuck_ she's already fucking crying, isn't she? "I refuse—I will _not_ be one of those girls who uses _tears_ like they're—like they're a _weapon_, okay, I refuse to be, and I _know you_, Draco, you'll be—_nice_, or something, if I try to do this while you can see me—so just—_move_!"

He blanches at her hysteria and immediately spins around.

"Is this another feminist thing?"

He hears her cough out a laugh.

"What, not wanting to manipulate you? No. It's a…decent person thing."

"Because—"

"Crying girls are your kryptonite, right?"

He half-smiles into his cereal bowl before abruptly recalling that he's really fucking mad at her and should absolutely not be finding anything about her current demeanor either amusing or adorable.

"Right," he confirms, biting his tongue.

"Right," she repeats softly. "Right. So—here's the thing. I—I've only had one boyfriend? Ever? And we were together for…almost all of high school, and I thought I loved him—really loved him—and even though we're still friends and our break-up was…mostly cordial, it still—it was hard. And some things that he said—when we were fighting—they stuck with me, and as much as I know that he was lashing out and probably made all of it up and it shouldn't _matter_—sticks and stones, and all that—it just—it was hard. It was hard when it happened, and it was hard after it happened, and then…and then I met you."

Draco thinks a little bitterly that this is the most he's ever heard her say about her past.

"Okay. You met me. And then you strung me along for eight months for…shits and giggles? An ego boost? Revenge for Potter?"

He hears the door close and her footsteps—light and quick—as she moves further into the room.

"No," she replies wryly. "No. At first…at first I just assumed that you'd lose interest after a while. That you were infatuated with me because of your—_fight thing_ with Harry—and just liked the chase. I'm nothing like your friends. Or any of the girls who hang around your fraternity. I didn't fit into your life, and I thought that was part of what made you want me. All the restrictions I put on our…our relationship—"

"Don't call it that," he interrupts, flatly.

There's a beat of tense, harsh silence.

"Okay," she says, tremulous and uncharacteristically quiet. "I won't call it that. Our…association. All the restrictions I put on our _association_—they were there to protect _me_. I liked who I was when I was with you—who I got to be—but I knew it wouldn't last. I tried—I tried _so hard_, Draco, I tried _so hard_ to not notice how you looked at me, and how I looked at you, and I just—I buried it, and I focused on other things, and I thought that if I didn't acknowledge what was changing, if I…pretended none of it mattered, that it would go away. That it would hurt less in the long run."

He scoffs.

"Thanks for including me in these super important decisions you made about our…_association_."

She doesn't respond for a second.

"I was horrible to you."

He shrugs.

"I was your dirty little secret—I get it."

"_What_?"

"I was your dirty little secret," he says again, throat tight. "I get it."

"Is that—is that really what you think?"

"What the fuck else does _compartmentalizing _mean, Hermione? You had all the people who actually mattered to you over…_yonder_, and then you had me. Separated. Secret. I was the asshole sitting around, like, drawing hearts around your name in my fucking diary—"

He hears her sit down on the far end of the couch.

"You don't have a diary, Draco."

"Smooth deflection, Granger."

She hesitates.

"I'm in love with you," she starts, and even as his breath catches—_releases_—he can't help but notice that for the first time since she'd arrived, she isn't stumbling over her words. "I've _been_ in love with you for months. I didn't want to be. I fought it." She clears her throat. "I _fought_ it. I told myself that there was no way we'd work long-term, that we were too different, that you didn't understand me, and I didn't understand you, and…I kept comparing what you and I had together to what I'd had with my ex, and how upset I'd been when I'd broken up with him, and all I could think about was how much _worse_ it would be with you."

Draco drops his forehead onto the back of the sofa.

"You were literally planning for our break-up before we were even together," he mumbles into the sleek black leather. "_Really_, Hermione? Just—_really_?"

She makes a very small, very sad kind of chirping sound. He hates it.

"I knew how stupid I was being," she says. "That fight we had, after the waitress called me your girlfriend—I _knew_ I was being stupid, okay? I knew."

He sighs and turns to place his forgotten bowl of cereal on the reclaimed barn wood coffee table.

"You're not stupid, Hermione."

"I didn't say that _I _was stupid," she argues sulkily. "Just that my behavior was."

He blindly reaches for her hand and yanks her closer.

"It was also unfair," he drawls. "To me. To you. To us." He pauses. He frowns. "Mostly to me, though."

She falls into his side and curls her legs up under her body and doesn't look up at him as she murmurs—

"I'm sorry."

He slings his arm over the slope of her shoulder, trailing his fingers across her bare skin—he knows that she thinks he needs to hear this, that he needs to hear her apologize and act remorseful and maybe even _further explain_ her insane neurotic reasoning for pushing him away. But he doesn't. He keeps replaying her confession—_I'm in love with you_—over and over and over again—_I'm in love with you—_on constant repeat—_I'm in love with you—_and it's echoing and it's burning and it's like the answer to a question he hadn't even known how to fucking ask because he'd convinced himself that he'd never be allowed to _have this_ and—

Here it is.

Here _she _is.

"Draco? Will you—say something?"

He _would_ say something, yeah, if he had any idea what the fuck to say.

His brain is nothing but blank space and white noise—_I'm in love with you—_and while he's vaguely aware that he should probably be contemplating the logistics of how to carry her caveman-style up to his bedroom—he doesn't want to do that.

No.

He wants to make this moment count.

"Draco?"

He nudges the underside of her chin and tilts her face up, towards his; their eyes lock, and whatever romantic bullshit he'd thought he'd be able to spew—it shrivels and dies on the tip of his tongue, not good enough, not _right_ enough, and his mouth goes dry and he isn't sure what his hands are doing but he thinks they might be _trembling_, Jesus fuck, and he brushes his thumb over her lower lip and watches her lashes flutter and her pulse quicken and he can't—

He kisses her.

It's soft, unhurried, deliberate—it's everything she'd never allowed them to be before now, and he wonders if he's imagining how fragile it all feels, the slow slip-slide of their tongues and the lightning-sharp friction of their lips and how the intensity—the _intimacy_—it's brittle. It could shatter. It could _break_.

He already knows he won't let it.

Because she's pulling back and exhaling shakily and looking up at him like she finally fucking _gets it_ and—

"Oh," she whispers.

###

(5:22 pm) _**hey**_

(5:23 pm) _**hey**_

(5:24 pm) _**hey**_

(5:25 pm) _**z-bone**_

(5:26 pm) _**hey**_

(5:27 pm) _**blaise**_

(5:28 pm) _**blaiseeee**_

(5:29 pm) _**hi**_

(5:30 pm) _**hola**_

(5:31 pm) _**bonjour**_

(5:32 pm) _**zabini**_

(5:33 pm) _**favorite black guy who isn't charles barkley**_

(5:34 pm) _**helloooo**_

(5:34 pm) _goddamn_

(5:34 pm) _what_

(5:36 pm) _**HERMIONE IS COMING TO PANSYS TONIGHT AND SHES BRINGING POTTER AND A BUNCH OF OTHER PEOPLE WHO ARENT RELEVANT BUT WILL PROBABLY BE BADLY DRESSED**_

(5:37 pm) _oh shit_

(5:37 pm) _is that why pansys wearing underwear and calling it a dress_

(5:38 pm) _**who cares **_

(5:38 pm) _**wait**_

(5:38 pm) _**are you already over there**_

(5:39 pm) _yeah_

(5:40 pm) _**are you pregaming**_

(5:40 pm) _yeah_

(5:41 pm) _that vodka pansy asked for tastes like a muffin_

(5:41 pm) _its nice_

(5:41 pm) _**oh fuck you guys**_

(5:42 pm) _**why wasn't i invited**_

(5:42 pm) _pansy says she texted u_

(5:43 pm) _and u didn't answer_

(5:44 pm) _oh_

(5:44 pm) _no_

(5:44 pm) _she says u did answer_

(5:44 pm) _but all u sent was a bunch of exclamation points_

(5:44 pm) _?_

(5:45 pm) _**youre all assholes**_

(5:45 pm) _**i don't know why we're friends**_

(5:47 pm) _cool_

(5:48 pm) _u on ur way yet bro_

(5:49 pm) _**obviously**_

(5:52 pm) _can u stop somewhere and get a piñata_

(5:54 pm) _**depends**_

(5:55 pm) _**is the piñata daphnes idea**_

(5:55 pm) _yeah_

(5:57 pm) _**then no**_

(5:58 pm) _**daphnes ideas always end in bloodshed and criminal records**_

(5:59 pm) _or sex_

(6:00 pm) _**none of those things are mutually exclusive**_

###

"_Draco! Draco, come inside! Your booty call is here!_"

Draco sputters and spits out some of his epic new Belgian-style sour wheat ale—it's a rare seasonal summer brew with notes of malted chicory and tangy-sweet raspberry, and his father had special-ordered it from some hole-in-the-wall backwoods operation in the Appalachians. The bottles don't even have labels. It's like drinking exceptionally delicious FDA-approved moonshine—thrilling and a little dirty.

"Booty call? Is Baby Malfoy all grown up?" Cassius Warrington smirks and takes a leisurely sip of his Malibu-infused pineapple-orange-peach-cranberry-banana juice concoction, a tiny blue toothpick umbrella hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He's a bastard. A smarmy, too-handsome bastard who's second in his class at Harvard Law and has a _paid_ internship with the RNC. Draco has a lot of conflicting emotions about Warrington—he can never decide if he wants to punch him or _be_ him. He's leaning towards the former now.

"Shut up," Draco mutters. "Shouldn't you be at a fucking supper club, or something?"

Warrington chuckles.

"Pucey's coming later."

Draco snorts.

"Literally or figuratively?"

Warrington grins.

"Both, if I'm lucky."

Draco shakes his head and gulps down the rest of his beer, clapping Warrington on the shoulder as he makes his way into the house; he can hear Daphne shrieking something about body shots, and the low murmur of multiple unfamiliar voices all trying to talk over each other. He tucks his hands into the front pockets of his seersucker shorts and reminds himself that it'll be okay—but he's feeling jittery and anxious and a little off-balance. He's never been out with Hermione in public like this, front and center with all their friends, and he doesn't fucking know what he's allowed to do. Can he kiss her? Hold her hand? Jesus _fuck, _is he even technically her boyfriend yet?

He chews the inside of his mouth.

He then rolls his neck around and cracks his knuckles and maybe does a few jumping jacks.

_I'm in love with you_.

Right.

He can fucking _do_ this.

He saunters into the living room and sees Potter standing about as close as he can get to Pansy without physically absorbing her body through osmosis. Blaise is sighing as he unzips Daphne's form-fitting navy sheath dress, and Theo is holding up a nearly-full bottle of tequila and a netted green grocery bag full of limes. A pretty red-haired girl is gesticulating wildly as she converses with a group of shirtless guys in sweatpants by the coffee table. Someone who vaguely resembles Neville Longbottom is glancing fearfully in Pansy's general direction, which—is interesting. And sensible.

Hermione, though—

Hermione is hovering by the front door with an embarrassed look on her face and a bright pink blush staining her cheeks. She's wearing a white chambray sundress that nips in at her waist and floats around the tops of her knees—she's ethereal, and she's sort of awkward, and it's fucking _ridiculous_, Draco thinks as he flicks his tongue along the cushion of his bottom lip, it's fucking _ridiculous _how much he still wants her, all these months later.

She smiles when she notices him.

_I'm in love with you_.

Yeah.

It'll be okay.

###

(11:45 pm) _hey_

(11:46 pm) _bro_

(11:47 pm) _daph wants to know if uve seen pansy_

(11:47 pm) _she disappeared with potter a while ago_

(11:48 pm) _and _

(11:48 pm) _even though i think we all know how that's going_

(11:48 pm) _after he basically fucking went down on her _

(11:48 pm) _and called it a body shot_

(11:48 pm) _like chill brother_

(11:49 pm) _territorial much_

(11:49 pm) _u kno_

(11:49 pm) _shit_

(11:50 pm) _i would rather get locked in pansys dads gun safe with those random water polo guys_

(11:50 pm) _who no one seems to know_

(11:51 pm) _than like_

(11:51 pm) _walk in on pansy and potter doing whatever theyre probably doing_

(11:52 pm) _u feel me man_

(11:59 pm) _daph is worried_

(12:00 am) _bro_

(12:05 am) _u there_

(12:06 am) _vince and greg r on their way finally_

(12:06 am) _with their drug dealer?_

(12:07 am) _i guess?_

(12:08 am) _did u know they bought their weed from a chick_

(12:09 am) _her names millicent_

(12:10 am) _or mildred_

(12:10 am) _mindy?_

(12:10 am) _?_

(12:10 am) _?_

(12:10 am) _nah_

(12:10 am) _millicent_

(12:10 am) _do we know a millicent_

(12:12 am) _we don't right_

(12:13 am) _bro?_

(12:33 am) _do me a solid and don't come out to the hot tub ok_

###

They're outside, sprawled across the crisp green grass that surrounds the fire pit; it's a clear night, the sky an almost jewel-toned blue-black velvet, studded with chaotic clusters of stars, microscopic pinpricks of light that don't make a lot of sense to Draco but seem to form actual comprehensible shapes and patterns to Hermione.

"You have your own constellation and you've never bothered learning about it?" she asks with an incredulous giggle.

He takes a sip of his beer and swishes it around his mouth before he swallows.

"It's a thing on my mother's side of the family," he explains, leaning back to balance on his elbows. "Constellation names. She's Narcissa, I've got an Aunt Andromeda…somewhere—she ran away a long time ago to marry a redneck she met at a NASCAR race, dropped out of Barnard and got disowned and everything, but my cousin totally added me on Facebook a few years ago and I found out my mother's been keeping in touch with them, like, _on the sly_, she even sends them Christmas baskets every December—anyway—what was I talking—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Hermione interrupts, tucking her hair behind her ears and sloppily putting her drink aside. "Your aunt was _disowned_—like, disinherited and shunned and forgotten—for getting _married_? Is this a Jane Austen novel? Did she also have to sew a giant scarlet letter onto her corset, or—"

He bursts out laughing.

"This was, like, twenty-five years ago," he says. "And my grandparents…they were fucking _crazy_ old-school—for real, the number of relatives I have who _didn't _run away from home and get disowned is probably smaller than the number who did. Aunt Andromeda just did it first. Besides, do _you_ really have any room to be judging them? You thought Potter was going to, like, terminate your friendship like a cell phone contract if he ever found out you were sleeping with me."

She grabs her cup and takes an audibly loud gulp of whatever Pansy and Daphne had poured for her earlier—blueberry vodka and vanilla crème soda, he thinks, but he _knows_ Pansy, and perhaps more importantly he knows _Daphne_, and he's willing to bet that Hermione's drink is mostly vodka.

"Um, that wasn't…I never actually thought that."

"You didn't?"

She drinks again.

And then again.

"I mean, I thought he'd be—irritated, and maybe a little upset, but I never thought he'd…_terminate our friendship _over it." She pauses, and then she shoots Draco a wicked, slightly goofy grin. "He'd have been such a _hypocrite_ if he had, don't y'think?"

He wrinkles his nose.

"Definitely could've done without seeing Potter's tongue that fucking close to Pansy's underwear." He shudders. "_Definitely_."

Hermione purses her lips.

"Are you…are you worried about what might happen with them? At all?"

He drains his beer.

"Not really," he says truthfully. "Potter's all _noble_ and shit, and Pansy's super difficult—if not _completely impossible_—to impress, so I figure we have a while until they get bored."

"That's not what I meant."

He gets to his feet and offers her his hand. She pitches forward as soon as she's standing, adversely affected by the alcohol, and he circles his arms around her waist to hold her upright.

"Then what did you mean, princess?"

She flattens her palms against his chest and cocks her head to the side.

"Just…Harry _really_ didn't like her when they first met."

"Pansy used to call him Captain Asshole."

Hermione blinks.

"Is that a Captain America reference?"

Draco swoops down to plant a kiss on her forehead.

"Don't tell anyone," he says, voice low, "but Pansy went through a pretty serious comic book phase in junior high."

Hermione looks nonplussed.

"Why can't I tell anyone?"

He trails his fingertips down the notches of her spine, sweeps his hands over the wings of her shoulder blades, cups the back of her neck and draws her mouth up towards his—

"Because," he breathes out, brushing their lips together, "everyone is entitled to their secrets, and if her identity as a closet ex-nerd is something she doesn't want a lot of people to know about…well, I respect _her_ enough to respect _that_."

Draco doesn't mention his awareness of one of Hermione's secrets—he'd gleaned enough from the single conversation they'd had about her ex to guess that the asshole had said or done _something_ that had made her feel inadequate, undeserving, insecure—and while Draco would be _more_ than fucking happy to spend the rest of his natural life proving to Hermione that she is none of those things, he knows that she would hate him a little bit if he took away her choice to prove it to _herself_.

And one day, he thinks, she'll tell him all about. She'll tell him all about the asshole ex and all the stupid shit he'd said and how she hadn't believed it, not really, but hadn't been able to _not _believe it, either. She'll tell him all about how she'd built herself back up, piece by piece, layer by layer, how she'd continuously tested herself—with in-class debates and mock trial auditions and fucking _Saturnalia _parties, Jesus fuck—and she'll tell him all about how she'd needed to do it alone, how she'd needed to _be_ alone.

And he'll understand.

He already understands.

Because she isn't the girl he met outside of Starbucks—confident and outspoken and so, _so _sure of herself; she isn't the girl he put on a fucking pedestal, the girl he chased, the girl who, on the surface, is the antithesis of everything he'd ever thought he'd want.

She'd spent six months pushing him away, and he'd _needed_ her to.

He isn't sure he'd have been patient enough to fall in love with her otherwise.

"—_fuck yeah, __**get some**__, Malfoy!_" Warrington hollers from an upstairs balcony, shattering Draco's reverie.

He wordlessly waves his middle finger at Warrington as Hermione groans and takes a wobbly step away from him, drink still clutched in her hand.

"Such a dick," Draco huffs. "Pucey's taste in men is even shittier than Pansy's."

Hermione hums thoughtfully.

"Harry _was_ pretty terrible to her," she acknowledges. "In fact—that should've been my first clue that he liked her. He lashes out when he's confused, and Pansy _really_ confused him. They were like second graders with a crush. Just—a lot of totally unwarranted hostility and bickering and staring at each other from a distance. They should work on their communication skills."

Draco chuckles.

"Yeah—um, are you forgetting all the _unwarranted hostility_ you threw at me when we first met? Like, _literally_ threw at me. You threw coffee at me. That happened."

"You…deserved it?" she tries.

"You also rejected me under the mistletoe," he goes on, playfully raising his voice. "And I think we bickered about a Vitamix."

"I did not _reject you under the mistletoe_—"

"You're right, we totally rounded third in Theo's weird zen garden thing in the backyard."

The looks at him askance.

"I don't think what we did counts as rounding third."

He pouts.

"And _I think_ you could've made your point about me leaving Potter alone without pouring _coffee_ all over my awesome new pea coat. We all have opinions, Hermione."

"Yeah, that wasn't—that wasn't really about _making my point_," she admits.

"No? Then what was it about?"

"Well…" she hedges.

"Well?"

"You were just so—_put together_," she says, rolling her eyes. "Like—like—the buttons on your jacket were all _perfectly aligned_, and your stupid designer scarf was all _perfectly knotted_, and your hair was all _perfectly wind-swept_—I wanted…to mess you up, I guess. Pouring coffee on you seemed like a good idea."

He smirks.

"Oh, yeah? And what about now?"

"What _about _now?"

"Still want to _mess me up_, Granger?"

She peers mischievously into the depths of her cup.

"This tastes like a muffin, you know," she informs him blithely.

He doesn't even have the chance to respond before she's dumping the rest of her drink all over the front of his pale grey John Varvatos v-neck

"Mother_fucker_," he gasps.

###

(01:15 am) _holy shit man_

(01:15 am) _wtf was that _

(01:17 am) _?_

(01:20 am) _just fyi_

(01:21 am) _but the ginger twins r playing beer pong_

(01:21 am) _and fucking_

(01:21 am) _just_

(01:22 am) _killing it_

(01:30 am) _r twins telepathic_

(01:55 am) _u ok_

(02:01 am) _where did u go_

(02:02 am) _r u moping_

(02:10 am) _did u leave_

(02:15 am) _ur officially not the only person I know who has hit potter_

(02:20 am) _dude_

(02:21 am) _we should buy some fucking chainmail_

(02:25 am) _do u think snape would let us get swords_

(02:25 am) _like_

(02:25 am) _daphne's weird neighbor has a katana_

(02:25 am) _i bet pansys dad has one_

(02:25 am) _that fuckers scary_

(02:30 am) _why the fuck is ur phone off_

(02:40 am) _bro_

(02:44 am) _BRO_

(03:00 am) _goddamn it draco_

###

"I really can't believe you called your boat the _Dragon's Lair_."

He rolls over onto his stomach, sheets pooling around his hips, and rests his chin on the flat of her abdomen; she'd kept her bra on—plain white satin with a trio of small pearls sewn into the front clasp—and he can see the way the soft curves of her breasts push up against the cups as she breathes in and out. It's kind of fucking mouthwatering.

"Can you _really_ not believe it, though? Like, _really really_?" he teases.

She snorts, and he sprinkles a series of wet, purposely sloppy kisses across the sloping valley between her ribs.

"Stop—_stop_, Draco, that—that _tickles—_"

He turns his head and runs his hands up her legs and over the hollow of her pelvis, nails gently grazing her navel—he can feel goosebumps erupt, can feel the faint shiver that pulses through her body when the heel of his palm almost-but-not-quite brushes against her clit.

"I mean, I was _twelve_ when I named it, I don't know if that sheds any light on the situation for you—"

She arches her back, lifting her hips off the bed, and tries to wriggle away from him.

"The—the _situation—_the situation is that you're a—a _raging narcissist_—" she wheezes, laughter ringing out in the cramped confines of the below-deck cabin; moonlight is streaming in through the porthole, and the ceiling is much too low for either of them to even sit up straight, but he likes the smell of the salty sea breeze and he likes the rhythmic methodical rocking of the waves and he likes the hazy summer heat that lingers in the air. "Oh my—oh my _God_, Draco, stop—it—it—I'm _ticklish—_"

She shoves his shoulders and he moves his mouth up along the lower edge of her bra, where the underwire is—she shudders as his tongue drags across her skin, and she squirms as his hand creeps feather-light down towards the warmth of her cunt—and he likes _this_, too, fuck, likes the contradiction of what he's making her feel and the cut-crystal transparency of how she reacts to him; fractured, yes, nuanced and uneven, absolutely, but so fucking _clear_ despite all the manufactured hiding places—

"Hey," he whispers, halting his movements.

A slow smile spreads across her face.

"Hey," she replies, voice suddenly quiet.

He slides his fingers along the crease at the top of her thigh.

"How do you feel about tattoos?"

###

(9:24 pm) _bro_

(9:28 pm) _its been almost 24 hours_

(9:29 pm) _ur dad said ur boats gone_

(9:30 pm) _did u go up north_

(9:30 pm) _maine_

(9:45 pm) _?_

(9:45 pm) _u didn't do something crazy right_

(9:45 pm) _like_

(9:45 pm) _u didn't kidnap ur girl_

(9:46 pm) _right_

(9:46 pm) _?_

(9:59 pm) _right?_

(10:44 pm) _marcus beat the shit out of potter_

(10:50 pm) _btw_

(10:50 pm) _pansy saw him today and said there was epic bruising_

(11:20 pm) _dude_

(12:34 am) _just_

(12:34 am) _say rooster if ur safetys been compromised_

###

On the walk up from the private dock to the house, she jumps onto his back, looping her arms around his neck and hitching her legs over his elbows; she claims that she's too tired to move, and he complains that she's too heavy to carry, but he thinks that they're both probably lying.

He doesn't mind.

###

(01:55 am) _oh_

(01:56 am) _hey_

(01:56 am) _u know in eighth grade _

(01:57 am) _when we talked about _

(01:57 am) _whether or not guys gave better blowjobs than girls_

(01:58 am) _cuz of like_

(01:58 am) _u know_

(01:59 am) _having a dick_

(01:59 am) _or whatever_

(02:00 am) _yeah_

(02:05 am) _goddamn it bro_

(02:06 am) _talking about theo usually draws u out_

(04:33 am) _ROOSTER?_

(05:00 am) _?_

(06:03 am) _!111_

###

The Sharpie squeaks a little as it glides across her stomach.

"You're _ridiculous_," Hermione says, exasperated fondness coloring her tone.

He huffs—the felt-tip of the marker is now circling the sensitive skin beneath her navel, and her bottom lip is clutched between her teeth.

"You're the one who wanted a _relationship contract_. I'm just following through, princess."

She shifts her hips and laughs shakily when the Sharpie goes lower.

"_Draco_."

He presses his hand down on her pelvis to hold her still.

"Right, so far we have—"

"—can't even get this _notarized—_"

"—that we're definitely serious, like, _heart-attack_ levels of serious—"

"—didn't actually put that, did you—"

The Sharpie continues its descent, dragging slightly as it reaches the mound of her cunt.

"—use of traditional relationship terminology—_id est_, girlfriend, boyfriend, _et cetera_—is encouraged but not required—"

"—is that all the Latin you remember from prep school, or—"

"—agree that Habit for Humanity trips do not qualify as legitimate vacations—"

"—how are you even _fitting_ all of this—"

He stops writing.

He smirks.

He caps the Sharpie.

He tosses it aside.

He slides his hands around the inner curve of her thighs, thumbs framing her cunt, and uses his shoulders to nudge her knees further apart.

"Are you—are you done?" she manages to ask.

He nods, satisfied.

And then he dives in, nipping at her clit, all scraping teeth and roving tongue and slow, slow, _slow _suction—he glances up to catch her searching, searing gaze—holds it—and her pupils are fucking _blown_, and his eyes are greedily tracing the planes of her face, the flush in her cheeks and the light sheen of sweat spread across her chest—and he thinks he wants to _come_ there, shit, can picture it, even, can see how it would coat her skin and drip between her breasts and cling to those tight, perfectly pink nipples—

"Yeah," he says casually, mouth open and hot against her cunt. "Better seal it with a kiss."

She gasps.

###

(09:42 am) _i made pancakes today_

(09:42 am) _buckwheat_

(09:45 am) _theyre shaped like mickey mouse_

(10:06 am) _marcus ate all of them_

(11:24 am) _fuck this bro_

(11:25 am) _i miss ur stupid ass_

(1:12 pm) _hey_

(1:13 pm) _did u know_

(1:14 pm) _about pucey and warrington_

(1:16 pm) _?_

(1:16 pm) _like_

(1:17 pm) _pansy_

(1:17 pm) _freaked when she heard_

(1:17 pm) _i guess that was one of her weird pucey sex dreams_

(1:18 pm) _idk_

(1:19 pm) _i stopped listening_

(1:22 pm) _potter was there_

(4:30 pm) _bro_

(4:30 pm) _seriously_

(4:31 pm) _answer_

(4:32 pm) _me_

(4:34 pm) _or say rooster_

(8:00 pm) _**I'm fine, man**_

(8:02 pm) _yeah?_

(8:02 pm) _u sure?_

(8:04 pm) _**yeah**_

(8:04 pm) _**everything worked out**_

(8:04 pm) _**its**_

(8:04 pm) _**you know**_

(8:05 pm) _**its good**_

(8:05 pm) _**its gonna be good**_

(8:05 pm) _cool_

(8:07 pm) _**can i still say rooster though**_

(8:08 pm) _**or nah**_

(8:09 pm) _idk why i thought i missed u_

###


End file.
